Hiraeth
by AreiaCannaid
Summary: Hiraeth: a homesickness for a place you can never return to, a place that maybe never was, the nostalgia, yearning, and grief for the lost places of your past. Morgarath gets the chance to turn back time and takes the opportunity to try and ensure his victory by taking Halt out of the picture. What if Pritchard was killed instead of banished and Halt never came to Araluen? (AU)
1. Prologue

**Hiraeth**

 **A/N:** This will be my very first long work for Ranger's Apprentice and I'm a little bit nervous about it—but also excited. I got the idea for this about a year ago and I dearly hope that it turns out to be as fun to read as it was for me to map out, plot, and write. I've put quite a lot of thought into it and hope it all makes sense and everything fits into place as well as fits the characters. Life had been rather messy and busy for me of late, so updates in this story may be sporadic.

 **Full Summary:** _Hiraeth: a homesickness for a place you can never return to, a place that maybe never was, the nostalgia, yearning, and grief for the lost places of your past._ Morgarath gets the chance to turn back time and takes the opportunity to try and ensure his victory by taking Halt out of the picture. What if Pritchard was killed instead of banished and Halt never came to Araluen? (AU)

 **Note:** This book will contain spoilers for practically every single book in the series. Also, although I will include many/most all of the characters that hail from Araluen, It will mostly focus on Halt, Will, Horace, Gilan, and Evanlyn/Cassandra.

 **Important Side note:** Despite the premise of this story, _there will be no magic in this work_ other than the single event of time turning back (and even that may, or may not, exactly be as it seems *cough cough*) Other than that, this story will not have anything in it that is any more fantastical than you usually get in the RA books, so I really hope that it doesn't turn anyone off. Think of it more of that this is an alternate universe where everything is the same except for this one "magical" item that can only be, and is only, used once. And considering the fantastical creatures, mind control/communication, barrow wraiths/spirits, and other things in RA that are of a slightly fantastical nature, I don't think this one item is too very far out. Besides that, this was mostly written for fun above all else :)

 **Disclaimer:** I have nothing but respect for John Flanagan and the world and characters he's created. I own absolutely nothing and do not profit from this in any way other than my enjoyment and hopefully the enjoyment of others.

* * *

 **Prologue**

 **~x~X~x~**

 _Around the time of the Ruins of Gorlan_

 **~x~X~x~**

 _Morgarath, Lord of the Mountains of Rain and Night, rolled the large blue gemstone he held in his hand. Absently feeling its smooth surface, he stared at the open pages of the tome set before him. His mouth moved slightly as he went over the ancient words for what would be the fifth time in the past few hours. On the page before him was a drawn representation of the very stone that he now held._

 _The ancient book was worn to the point of falling apart, but it had served him well in the past. It was this book that had told him where to find the Wargals that lived in the Mountains of Rain and Night. It was this book that had given him the knowledge he had needed to assert his will over the semi-human, bestial creatures—so that he could speak to them and control them with his thoughts. All in all, the book had never let him down before…. Therefore, as farfetched as the words on the page concerning the strange stone he had found sounded, there was a chance that they were telling truth._

 _He had found it when he had been exploring some of the more ancient tunnels that twisted through the mountains. The Wargals had lived in many of these caves and crevices. But the one where he had found the stone was a little different than the typical Wargal shelter. At first glance, it appeared as if the creatures had made what looked to be some primitive shrine with the stone set upon a rough pedestal in the middle. The creatures had obviously revered this artifact, prized it enough to try to hide it and keep it safe. And, if what he had just read was true, then he was not surprised._

 _He looked now at the stone, his cold, dark eyes slowly pouring over its surface as he considered. It was a polished and rounded sphere of blue—the perfect size to fit in the palm of a man's hand. It seemed almost to glow if one stared at it long enough. It was beautiful, almost easy to get lost in… almost._

 _Morgarath narrowed his eyes. Its beauty mattered little enough to him in comparison to its potential. He was suddenly gripped by the temptation to try to use it as the book had said before begrudgingly thrusting that idea aside. As much as he might revel in such power, he knew that he would only be able to use it once. That meant he needed to wait until the most opportune moment—or the day he might need it most. It could well end up being the perfect failsafe. He placed the stone in a sack covering and then put it away._

 _Waiting was not exactly a problem for him. After all, he'd been waiting fifteen years for the opportunity to try and mount an attack against the Kingdom of Araluen. He'd waited fifteen years to try and reclaim what he saw as rightfully his. It had been fifteen years since the kingdom of Araluen had slipped from his grasp and he had ended up in the veritable prison that was the desolate Mountains of Rain and Night. He cursed at the thought of it._

 _All through that time he'd been plotting and scheming to regain what he had lost and more. And he sensed now that the time was ripe to make his first moves. After all, the stone was not the only thing he'd found during his exile here. Wargals weren't the only ancient and terrifying creatures that lived in these mountains. He had found two other, more fearsome allies—the Kalkara. The time was ripe to unleash them, he thought then with an ugly smile. This time, none of those who had conspired against him previously would be left alive to do so again and aid King Duncan._

 **~x~X~x~**

 _Present day: Around the time of the Burning Bridge_

 **~x~X~x~**

Morgarath contemptuously knocked aside the boy's exhausted blow and then continued his vicious onslaught. He rained blow after powerful blow down upon the boy who was trying desperately to dodge and deflect them. This was child's play. Morgarath knew he was going to win this confrontation with as much certainty as he knew that he was going to get revenge on Halt. Although the young cadet's near suicidal move of throwing himself underneath Morgarath's horse had, admittedly, successfully unhorsed him and taken him by surprise—he was still angry about that—he knew that he could crush this boy as easily on foot as he could have done on horseback. And his eventual brutal defeat, Morgarath was certain, would draw Halt out to face him, draw him out right into Morgarath's waiting fingers. He smiled darkly at the thought—a smile that grew wider as his next massive blow snapped the young cadet's sword in half.

He stepped back as the boy stared stupidly at his broken weapon.

"I think we're nearly finished now," he said, the smile growing crueler. He vaguely heard the murmurs and dismayed cries coming from Duncan's watching army. The sound told him what he already knew: the boy was as good as dead now.

The boy reached desperately for his dagger with his left hand. Morgarath laughed at the pathetic action.

"I don't think that will do you much good," he sneered as he raised his sword up for the final, killing, stroke. The light of victory danced in his eyes as he brought his sword down with all his strength, expecting to feel the contact and crunch of bone and internal organs as he would split the boy from head to waist… but the blow never connected. Instead, it stopped dead in a wedge created by the crossed blades of the boy's broken sword and smaller knife. Before Morgarath could even reason through what had just happened, the cadet had withdrawn the smaller knife from the block and was slamming it forwards.

Pain. The sense of triumph and certainty vanished. Morgarath felt a burning pain and looked down to see that the blade had pierced through his armor and deep into his chest. His vision started to darken and he felt himself falling. That was when he realized that he was dying. He, Morgarath, once primer knight of Araluen, was dying.

Not only had his plans for conquest again been foiled, but so had his last desperate hope for revenge against the person who was responsible for it all. Everything had been taken from him again, by Halt, Duncan, Arald, Crowley first, and now too by this boy—a mere cadet.

This couldn't be it just couldn't. In that moment he knew a hatred so strong that he could hardly even feel the pain any longer. As he lay broken on the field, lost in malice and hate that was stronger than any he had ever felt before, his mind seized upon one last desperate idea to try and make this right. For he could not die like this; things couldn't end like this. All these thoughts flashed through his mind within seconds.

With weak and trembling hands, he reached into the leather pouch at his side. His wrapped his dying fingers around the smooth object inside and brought it out, seeing the glossy blue of its surface only dimly through his fading vision.

He closed his eyes and concentrated, trying to use that mental language, the will of his dominant mind, in the same manner that he used to speak with the Wargals. The stone seemed almost to glow… or perhaps it was just that the rest of the world was fading away…. He focused hard on a single memory.

He had thought long on finding the one point in time that had truly caused all his hard thought and carefully executed plans for conquest to fail. He'd had fifteen years to brood and turn that question over in his mind and thought he had the answer.

Everything had started to fall apart the moment that Halt had come to Araluen. Halt had helped rally the Ranger Corps, Halt had helped free prince Duncan, Halt had come up with the plan to outflank his army in the battle of Hackham Heath and again today. Halt had been the one to truly ruin everything. Knowing this, he knew also the exact point in time that had been the true start to his demise. It all came down to a single Ranger. But, contradictory as it seemed, that Ranger wasn't Halt; rather it was a Ranger named Prichard.

When Morgarath was weakening the Ranger Corps all those years ago, and systematically getting rid of the best Rangers—getting them banished for treason or forcing them to give up their commissions for other similar crimes—Prichard had been one of the first Morgarath had targeted. He'd had Prichard banished specifically because he was one of the Corps' finest… But Morgarth had found out later that Prichard had gone to Hibernia. And it was only a few years after that when a fully trained young Ranger with a Hibernian background had come to Araluen to become the biggest hindrance Morgarath had ever known. It couldn't be a coincidence. Prichard had been Halt's mentor…. If he had just executed Prichard all those years ago instead of banishing him, Halt would never have become a Ranger and probably would never have come to Araluen at all.

Legend said that the stone he had found could change one, and _only_ one, thing about the past—and only the person holding the stone when it was used would remember the change, remember what had happened before. Morgarath wasn't entirely sure if he believed it fully, but it was his only chance now. So he focused with all the fading strength that he possessed, keeping himself going with the force of this desperate hope born of all his hatred and malice.

Halt was one of the first to head towards the field of combat as soon as Morgarath had gone down, intending to make sure that Morgarath really was dead, and to make sure that young Horace was alright—the cadet had fallen shortly after Morgarath, no doubt fairly badly injured by his move of throwing his body into the path of Morgarath's charger. Once he was certain of both, he intended to head directly up Three Step Pass to look for Will. He felt his former apprentice Gilan keeping pace slightly behind him and sensed that a few of the command group were already following too. He also heard King Duncan calling for his personal healer to be sent for.

He turned partially to face his former apprentice as he walked. "You see to Horace until the healer comes. I'm going to make certain of Morgarath."

He saw Gilan nod at him and break off a little to the left. Halt was only a few meters from where Morgarath lay when he saw him move. Morgarath was still alive and he was retracting his hand from the pouch at his waist, gripping something and pulling it forward. Fearing that he had some kind of weapon, Halt shouted Gilan's name before moving to intercept the downed knight. As he moved, he saw Morgarath lift up what he had taken from the pouch at his side.

Halt realized that it was some sort of stone. But there was something weird about it. It seemed to draw one in as if it were a deep pool of dark water that grew steadily deeper as you looked into it—as if you could look beneath its polished surface to other layers beneath. The Wargals had all suddenly stiffened, seeming to straighten slightly as the turned their attention to it as one. And that was when Halt felt it—though he wasn't really certain what _it_ was exactly. It was like a whisper in the back of his mind that seemed to grow stronger and stronger until it hurt. He heard the men of Duncan's army, and even the men in Morgarath's army, crying out in surprise or in pain as they felt it too.

Halt had spent his life fairly certain that there was no such thing as magic. In all the cases he'd seen or investigated as a Ranger, ninety-eight percent of them had all turned out to have reasonable explanations. There had only been about a two percent of those incidences that that defied any such rational explanations—and this was already seeming to have the distinctive flair of one of those two percent incidences. He did not know if it was indeed magic or not, nor what exactly it was supposed to do. But his instincts told him that it wasn't good and that he needed to find a way to stop Morgarath from doing whatever it was he was doing.

So thinking, he had crossed the small remaining distance between them in a few strides, trying to ignore and brush aside the horrible pain that had flared up in his head. His hand was already reaching to knock whatever it was from Morgarath's hand. Vaguely, he felt Gilan right behind him, trying to help, his left arm brushing Halt's right shoulder. He heard the young Ranger grunt softly in pain. Halt might have too for all he knew; the pain was making it hard to think, hard to focus, hard to move—and that... unsettled him. His heart started to race. He had to stop Morgarath before something worse happened. He gritted his teeth and kept moving.

The grizzled Ranger threw his right hand forward in a palm outward strike with all the weight of his arm, shoulder, and back muscles behind the blow, aiming for the blue sphere. The heel of Halt's hand began to brush the stone's smooth surface. As he was knocking it away, it flared to life, seeming to take on an otherworldly glow. It grew brighter within the span of a few milliseconds. Then, in a single blinding flash, everything grew dark, fading away into nothingness. Halt felt himself falling in that blackness as if his mind was straying from all thought and time itself.

 **~x~X~x~**

 _Present Day (After the Time Change): In Between the Time of Ruins of Gorlan and Burning Bridge_

 **~x~X~x~**

 _A King stares out over the broken disunited land he rules. It is a land as fractured as his family ties and struggling armies. He fights a seemingly endless war against a traitor and his army of murderers and monsters. Fighting too against his own rising sense of hopelessness, he tries to remain strong for his people—all the while knowing that the situation grows more and more helpless every day it continues._

 _As helpless as the Baron feels — a man who holds no land, no actual position of authority or influence other than his title and the respect of the few who follow him out of friendship. He roams the broken countryside, trying his best to rally support to fight a losing war in the name of a King and a Kingdom that he loves._

 _A King and Kingdom he loved, as the King's Ranger did, who looks on despondently at the failing Kingdom and at his own dying Corps and all that they once stood for. His once cheery demeanor dimming slowly by the reality of war and the knowledge that it might be a war they could never fully win._

 _A war that can never be won is the idea that the lady and her young apprentice do their best to fight against. They fight as strongly as any soldier, battling to win in a world that gets harder to live in every day as the war goes on._

 _And every day a miserable cadet finds his bright dreams of knighthood, a won war, and honor fading away into a far less beautiful reality. It is a reality that grows slowly to become as ugly and harsh as the broken land in which he is existing._

 _Existing but never really living, a farm boy with no family and no surname works near ceaselessly to survive. He clings desperately to the dreams of his father, a hero, and his own dream that he could be like him, that there is something better for him out there._

 _And out there a lost girl tries to find her way back to her home and to her father, wondering if either will actually still be there when she returns—if she returns. If she can ever make it back to her kingdom, to the lands, fields, and forests of her home._

 _Out in the lands, fields, and forests he calls home, the wanderer fingers his sword and his bow. He looks past the light of his campfire and into the gnarled shadows of tree and brush and smiles. He smiles in defiance of the cold, the darkness, and the hardness of the life that they all lived—and could never truly run from if they cared._

 _If they cared…. And all the while, the runaway Hibernian prince looks for work as a mercenary in Galica, having no idea how much of an affect he would have had in the lives of all the others had he simply been there. Instead, he knows only the discontentment that comes from never finding a true home or allegiance, and the vague but constant feeling that there is something more than this, something better out there for him, something important that he's missing, something he should have been a part of, something bigger._

 _And in his base in the Mountains of Rain and Night, the traitor lord laughs. He laughs because he knows why their world was so broken, why they all felt as if they were missing something. He knows it with as much certainty as he knows that, this time around, it will be he who will stand successful, he who will be the victor. Araluen will be his…_

* * *

 **A/N:** Thanks so much for reading! So this prologue was mostly a building/ set up chapter, the main story will start in chapter one. I really appreciate feedback. If you see any way that I can improve or have any questions, don't hesitate to point them out. I think I'll be able to have chapter 1 out pretty soon. I hope you all have blessed days until next time!


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Here's the first chapter! And it's mostly about Halt everyone's favorite grim/grumpy Ranger XD. So Everything from this point on will be after the time change. Also, this book will have a lot of flashbacks in it (mostly at the beginnings of chapters) and those will always be in italics; I hope it will make it less confusing that way. Thanks everyone for the positive response and for the support, I really appreciate it.

 **anatharize:** Thanks so much for the compliment and the review! That was part of the fun of writing this story: trying to figure out what all would/might change and how. I promise I'll answer all those questions soon enough XD. I'm really glad you like it so far.

 **Dragonslover98:** Thanks for the review! I'm looking forward to writing them. :D

 **TrustTheCloak:** Thanks :3 I'd love to talk technique with you, feel free to PM me whenever. In fact, I've always loved how you are able to breathe life into the characters and write emotion in your stories. I think it'd be fun to learn from each other and fun to trade tips-and maybe even fangirl XD. Thanks again for the review, I really appreciate it!

 **WisperRanger26:** *blushes* Thanks so much for the compliments and vote of confidence; your review totally made my day to read. I'd actually love to write my own book someday- so it was nice to hear that someone thinks I might be good enough to try it eventually (I'm always worried about that). I'll definitely PM you then if I do! Also, I think you're a pretty great writer too-PM me if you ever write a book too. Thanks again.

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

 **~x~X~x~**

 _Before the Time of the Tournament of Gorlan_

 **~x~X~x~**

 _"Name?" The first mate of the Clobhair-Ceann asked as soon as the black-haired youth approached his table._

 _Halt, not having expected the people in front of him in line to be finished registering so soon, was caught momentarily off guard._

 _"Halt O'—" he started automatically before hesitating, "Halt," he repeated again, cursing himself for his momentary lapse in concentration, "My name is Halt."_

 _The shipmaster raised his eyebrows in surprise, scrutinizing the young man before him. It wasn't the lack of a surname that had intrigued him—there were many peasants that he'd registered as passengers on his ship before that had had no surname, after all—rather, it was the name itself._

 _"Halt, you say?" The man leaned forward, continuing on in the conspiratorial tone of one who likes to gossip, "The crown prince of Clonmel went by that name, you know. Your parents wouldn't have happened to name you after him, did they?" he asked._

 _Halt managed to re-gather himself from his earlier lapse, but none the less felt his heart rate accelerate slightly at the turn the conversation had taken. He managed not to show it, however, and simply shook his head, shrugging slightly._

 _"I wouldn't know," he said finally, in answer._

 _He looked closely to see if the man believed him and relaxed a little. The ship's mate seemed not even to have heard him. He was far more interested in telling the latest gossip than in actually listening to Halt's responses._

 _"Terrible what happened to the prince—died in a fishing accident of all things!" The man continued on animatedly, idly stroking his beard. "He and his brother were out fishing and apparently he tripped and fell out of the boat, hit his head on the side of it, and then drowned. His brother, Ferris—now crown prince Ferris of Clonmel, mind you—tried to save him, but the current was far too strong. They say they've not yet found his body."_

So that was the story that was going around _, Halt thought bitterly. He unconsciously reached a hand towards his bruised shoulder—as if he could still feel the sharp blow from his brother's oar as it hit him, as his brother had tried to drown him. The memory of that day was still painfully fresh in his mind._

 _Halt had been born seven minutes before his twin brother…and Ferris had always resented those seven minutes. His whole life he'd felt that Halt had cheated him out of his birthright; and that ingrained hatred and resentment had made it all the easier for him when he tried to kill Halt. Ferris had always believed the throne should be his, and the boating incident had actually been the third time his brother had tried to kill him. To Ferris, the throne of Clonmel was worth his brother's life—but it had never been worth that much to Halt._

 _As Halt had struggled to make it to shore that day, he had known that his brother would never stop trying to kill him. And he'd known too that he had only two choices left to him: either he could kill Ferris before he killed him… or he could leave the country. Needless to say, Halt had chosen the second. He shook his head free of the thoughts as he became aware of the first mate's increased scrutiny and realized that the man expected a reply of some kind._

 _"That's… terrible," he finally settled on, unable to completely keep the dry tone out of his words._

 _"Isn't it just," the first mate nodded enthusiastically, "a terrible loss for the royal family." The man's attention had not moved away, and there seemed to be something more in his tone than the typical casual remark._

 _Halt felt a warning sense of suspicion beginning to run through him. Did the man suspect? Or worse, did he know? Though he was near the coast and far from Clonmel, there was always a chance, slight as it might be, that he could be recognized. Halt's eyes narrowed slightly, the tension coming back into his stance. He mentally cursed himself for his earlier slip of giving the man his first name—and nearly giving him his surname as well._

 _It was a bit of a cruel irony that his first, and quite potentially catastrophic, lapse in judgment had happened when he was trying to buy passage on a ship was named after the more mischievous, drunk, and surly cousins of the laechonnachie; both creatures were the subject of great superstition in Hibernia, and both were said to have nasty senses of humor. And Halt knew well that often, first lapses in judgment and attention, also tended to also be last lapses in judgment and attention—nasty sense of humor indeed._

 _He watched warily as the first mate seemed to take in his appearance now. When he had left Clonmel, he had taken care to change the way he looked enough so that he would not be recognized by the casual eye. He was dressed in a simple tunic of grey and green with a traveling pack and travel-worn boots. His hair was roughly trimmed and he'd been attempting to grow a beard—which was more like a thin covering of stubble at the moment. But it did its purpose. When it came down to his bearing…well, he'd always been told that his brother Ferris had been the one to inherit the princely bearing of the house of Clonmel._

 _The best touch, however, was the longbow and cloth-yard shafts he carried slung over one shoulder and the heavy saxe knife at his belt. Those were not princely weapons. He'd been interested in archery all his life and, about a couple years ago, he'd taken to the saxe as well. He'd found the heavy knife in the wreckage of a Scandian raid and had been immediately drawn to it. It was the same way he'd often been drawn to the woods around his home or the few times he was drawn to this one abandoned house in the village outside the castle—as if he was supposed to be there, meet someone there. It was like a strange feeling of promised familiarity, or perhaps a feeling like destiny. He shook his head at the foolish notion. There was no such thing. And he'd never found anything of import on those occasions._

 _"But, as a forester, I don't expect you'd know much about the goings on of the royal court," the first mate was saying, interrupting Halt's slightly distracted thoughts for the second time._

 _He allowed the barest ghost of a smile to touch his face as he heard it: so the man really hadn't recognized him. He relaxed again._

 _"True enough," he said, and the first mate nodded, looking back down at his passenger list, signifying the end of that particular conversation. Halt was grateful for that; in fact, he quite wished it had ended sooner_ — _or hadn't even happened at all._

 _"Well then, destination?" the first mate asked, taking up the quill pen again. The Clobhair-Ceann was making three separate stops before it returned back to Hibernia after all._

 _"Gallica," Halt said without hesitation._

 _There was always work for good fighting men in Gallica, he knew. However, as he said it, a strange sense of sadness and loss he couldn't explain settled over him. As he handed the man the coins he'd asked for in payment and stepped aboard the boat, he felt the beginnings of a hot prickling sensation behind his eyes. He narrowed them and cleared his throat to dispel the feeling. His mouth settled in a grim determined line. There was no going back. He'd made up his mind the moment he'd left Clonmel._

 **~x~X~x~**

 _Present Day AU Timeline: In between the time of Ruins of Gorlan and Burning Bridge._

 **~x~X~x~**

The grim bearded man had placed himself toward the side of the tavern, his back to the wall behind him and a clear view of the entire room before him. He was dressed simply, like a forester, and carried a heavy longbow and a quiver of arrows. At his belt, he wore two knives: a heavy saxe hanging from one hip and a smaller knife hanging from the other. He also wore a heavy cloak, the cowl of which was currently up and shadowing his face. That was a deliberate choice; not only did it give him a small measure of anonymity, it also allowed him the chance to carefully observe the room at large without appearing to do so. It was a personal rule of his: _always pay close attention to the surroundings._

The tavern was like most any other in the relatively small villages of the Gallican countryside. It was smoke-filled, dark, and dingy—though surprisingly clean as taverns went. The food that was served here also wasn't that bad, all things considered.

Halt brought the tankard that sat before him towards his lips and drank deeply of the contents, sighing contentedly. He had asked for coffee instead of the customary ale that was the tavern's usual staple—and he certainly did not regret his decision. Had anyone asked the reason behind his choice, he might have cited another personal rule along the lines of _clear head: sharper mind_ , but the truth was that he actually preferred the bitter drink to any type of alcohol—and not just because it didn't dull the senses, wits, and reflexes.

He set the tankard down, his shadowed gaze settling where it had been resting for quite a while now: a knight that had entered the tavern about fifteen minutes ago. He was young, probably in his late teens or early twenties and had slightly curly brown hair. He wore a green surcoat edged with black and emblazoned with a black boar. Halt was not familiar with the emblem so guessed that this young knight came from the ranks of the minor nobility. He certainly had that air about him. He held himself as if he were fully confident, almost arrogant. But, for all that, he'd seemed a little awkward. Halt was fairly certain that the youth was unfamiliar with this sort of environment, and a little out of his element because of it.

That was the reason he had first caught Halt's eye when he came in. However, it was the way he had approached the tavern keeper, surreptitiously passing him a coin as he asked a question, that had caused Halt's attention to settle unswervingly on him. This was because, in answer to the youth's question, the tavern keeper had jerked his head casually in Halt's direction. That meant the young knight had been asking specifically about or for him. Halt already had a guess as to why that was. He let out a soundless sigh, his mouth settling in a grim line.

The young knight finished the drink he had purchased and rose to his feet, setting the cup down and turning in Halt's direction. He then proceeded to head causally over towards him—as if just coming to the decision.

Halt snorted to himself—as if he hadn't noticed the youth sneaking glances at him, when he thought no one was watching, innumerable times already.

As the knight approached, Halt saw him fingering a very large, and obviously full, coin purse at his side. He nodded to himself; the sight confirming his suspicions as to why the man had been asking about him.

It wasn't really surprising. He'd frequented this tavern a lot over the past month…and he'd become quite a noteworthy figure in this town over the course of the month as well. His expression became even more grim as he thought it. He supposed it was about time that he moved on; it was never good policy to become too noteworthy. Slightly noteworthy was good for business in his profession, but too noteworthy was dangerous and only ever attracted trouble. Besides that, he'd always had an inherent dislike of being the focal point. However, that was almost unavoidable when you were a mercenary, Halt thought then.

The young knight stopped in front of Halt's table and dropped the sack of coins on it. There came the slightly muffled chink of metal on metal.

"All that can be yours," the young knight said boldly, confidently, "so long as you help with me with a little problem of mine that has cropped up recently."

Halt had looked up slowly to meet the young knight's arrogant gaze as he'd dropped the coin purse. Now he leaned back casually in his chair and crossed his arms, unimpressed. He fixed the overblown young man with a blank stare.

"You're new to this, aren't you?" he said flatly, gesturing towards the full sack of coins with a disinterested inclination of his head. "Walk in with a purse like that and you're just begging for someone to rob you."

The young knight was taken momentarily aback by the mercenary's response and unconcerned manner—as well as the slight Hibernian accent that tinged his words. He floundered for a moment before trying again; though, this time, Halt noticed that he didn't quite manage to completely recapture the level of confidence he'd been projecting previously.

"I'm veteran enough at it to offer you a job," the young knight countered, his face flushing slightly with anger. "The Lord of Chateau Oiseau Blanc has turned my father out of his service, broken all his oaths to him and left us with no holdings. To add to that, he has brought irreparable insult to my family and my family's name. I cannot suffer this to pass. As such, I am looking for someone who can help avenge my family's honor and good name. I won't be satisfied until I have received recompense for this slight. I can pay you more than you usually see in a month if you aid me in my endeavor."

Halt sighed again, honestly disinterested now, and he shook his head.

"No," he said decisively.

"No?" The knight asked incredulously.

"That's right: No," Halt said, enunciating his words carefully. "I don't want your money and I won't work for you. Best be off."

"I didn't come here to be insulted by a foreign forester," The knight said dangerously, obviously stung and insulted by Halt's manner and refusal.

"No," Halt agreed, "you came here to be turned down by one."

"Why you," the knight snarled, reaching for his sword in a fury, "I will not suffer your—"

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," the Hibernian mercenary said calmly.

The knight blinked in surprise, his weapon only half drawn from his sheath, as he stared at the blade of the saxe knife that was currently resting near his throat, and then at steady dark eyes of the man who held it. The grizzled mercenary had somehow drawn it and risen to his feet from his casual nonchalant position in the time it had taken the knight to reach for his sword. The knight, realizing he was at a severe disadvantage, and that he had lost the engagement before it even started, forced himself to swallow his anger and slowly moved his hand away from the hilt of his weapon. He held his hands to the side in a gesture of surrender before backing away from the mercenary's table.

He had made it about five paces, and was turning away, when the Hibernian called out to him. The knight turned just in time to catch the heavy sack of coins—his sack of coins—as the mercenary tossed them his way.

Halt picked up his tankard and took another deep sip as he watched the knight head away from him and then sit back at the table he'd previously occupied, as if unsure what to do now. Halt shrugged to himself at the sight, completely unconcerned that he'd just passed up what could have been a very lucrative job. There was always work for good fighting men in Gallica. But that number grew substantially less if a person was picky about the type. Halt had a rule about never involving himself in petty brawls between tyrants and the nobility, or in mindless raids against village folk and peasant farmers—which was the reason why he'd refused the young knight so readily.

That simply wasn't how Halt did things. And in Gallica, where that happened more often than not, he'd had plenty of offers to refuse. But Halt had always managed to get by. He was skilled enough to be picky. And when the Riders of the Easter Steppes had decided to try and take over Gallica, he had thrived. Not only had he been paid well by high ranking nobles and Galician officials to help repel them, but he had also gotten an extra side offer from a visiting Araluen to get some good Temuji horses for breeding purposes. That had been his most profitable time. But even now that it was long over, he still managed to get by fairly well.

But those were the keywords: _get by_. No matter how many jobs he got, or how much money, it always felt like getting by. Maybe it was just fanciful thinking but, ever since he had left Hibernia, he had harbored this empty feeling of malcontent, a feeling that he was missing something, that he'd forgotten or lost something. But, whenever he tried to focus on it, it seemed to retreat back into the corners of his mind.

He grunted softly in irritation as he set his cup down. He had always had that feeling, but it was stronger than ever before of late. It always seemed to be growing ever since the moment he had first realized it. Usually, he had been able to put it aside into the corner of his mind where he could forget or ignore it, but lately, that had not been so easy. He brought the tankard back up to his lips and then grimaced slightly as he realized that he'd already drained the cup. Disappointed, he eyed the bare wood of the bottom and then set it back down, pushing it away from himself. He was debating whether or not to spend the coin needed to get another cup full when some movement towards the edge of the tavern caught his eye.

Some of the more unsavory occupants of the tavern had obviously taken note of the young knight—or, more specifically, his money bag. Six thugs had surreptitiously made their way around the young man's table and he was now effectively hemmed in.

 _Never go anywhere without knowing how to get out again_ , Halt winced slightly, citing another of his rules as he saw it. In Halt's mind, that rule included being certain of, and sitting near, places with easy escape routes. The young knight had obviously forgotten that—though, then again, perhaps he'd never learned it in the first place. Halt sighed and shook his head.

The knight, becoming aware of his rather desperate situation, rose quickly and tried to fight off the group of men. Steel rang against steel as the knight's sword met with that of the first bandit. The knight deflected the bandit's blow and sent his hilt smashing into the brigand's head. The man tumbled to the ground, blood streaming down his face from a gash above his eyebrow from the vicious blow.

The knight dealt as quickly with the next three. He moved to avoid a wild swing from another of the thugs. He stepped skillfully out of reach but, unfortunately, forgot that one of the huge vertical beams that supported the building's ceiling was directly behind him. He stumbled as he backed directly into it, losing his balance. The other bandits took advantage of his stumble and momentary lapse in concentration. One pointed their sword at his throat before he could recover. Another tossed the young man's sword out of reach, while the third tied him to the rough post.

The first man, the one the knight had sent to the ground with a head wound, rose painfully to his feet. His mouth locked in a snarl as he took the young knight's money pouch. He glanced at his other fallen companions, one of which was lying ominously still, and the snarl turned into an expression of livid rage.

"Why did you have to go and make things difficult?" The man said through gritted teeth. "All we wanted was your coin. Now Jean Luc is dead thanks to you. The question is: what do we do with you now?" He drew one of his daggers and pointed it at the knight's vulnerable throat. "I think I'm going to make you bleed a little before I kill you. Maybe I'll cut off your ears—maybe your nose too… What do you think boys?" he asked his companions.

"I think you should turn him loose," Halt said, stepping out of the shadows. He had an arrow on the string of his longbow aimed unwaveringly at the bandit's leader.

* * *

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading! Feedback is always appreciated. Don't hesitate to let me know if you see anything that needs improvement. I hope you all have an awesome week until next time! I'll be introducing more of the characters next chapter.

 **Note:** _Clobhair-Ceann_ is the more Irish Gaelic way of spelling clurichaun (which actually are, according to Irish folklore, the more drunk and surly cousins of the leprechaun). Their myths and folklore are pretty interesting/awesome :)


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Chapter 2 is out! It's a little short but, if I combined it with the next one, it would be too long, so I decided to just leave it like this. I hope it proves to be enjoyable anyways. Thanks so much for reading.

 **jaymzNshed:** Thanks for the review! It totally made my day. I'm excited to write what happens next X).

 **Dragonslover98:** Well, there is a reason for that (aside from the fact that I can't picture Halt as anything but Halt XD). Will is going to be in this chapter and the others will be in the next two. Thanks for the review

 **WisperRanger26:** You're hitting the nail on the head with Halt saving Crowley in The Lost Stories... Also, I promise to reveal where Will, Horace, and Gilan are soon as I can. Thanks so much for the review!

 **TrustTheCloak:** I'm so sorry about that. Thank you so much for catching that. I went over that section what seemed like a million and a half times and still didn't manage to see it. I hope this next chapter proves worth the wait. Thanks so much for the review and the correction, I really appreciate it!

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

 **~x~X~x~**

 _Present Day: In between the time of Ruins of Gorlan and Burning Bridge._

 **~x~X~x~**

"Keep up the pace, Will! Tomorrow's a big day after all."

The farmer, lean and grey-haired, his face looking as grubby and worn as his garb, gestured toward at the neat rows of furrows that marked the earth—urging the fifteen-year-old boy onward. He was right. Tomorrow would be a big day. That was when the spring planting was due to start. As a consequence, they needed this last stretch of the field plowed before the sun set— and it was already getting to be very late in the afternoon.

Will muffled a groan as he moved to obey the farmer, Dorian's, command; the man was right about the need for speed. Besides that, the last thing Will wanted was a cuff to the head for 'not listening to yer elders and betters'. The last time he had gotten that lecture, he had actually ended up getting cuffed twice. The farmer hadn't much cared for his quick muttered reply of, _"well, at least the elder part's right."_ For a man who was usually fairly hard of hearing, he certainly seemed to pick up the most inopportune things at the most inopportune times.

All that aside, picking up the pace was easier said than done. Will had been working almost nonstop since before the sun had risen, and he was absolutely exhausted. The work was extremely labor intensive and, on top of all that, it had been a hard winter that they had just come through. As a consequence, Will wasn't in the very best of shape.

Nevertheless, he managed to urge the swayback plow horse ahead of him into a little faster pace as he followed behind. Both horse and boy managed to keep it up for a couple of minutes until the old farmer moved on. Then they both slowed down. Will knew the horse was just as tired as he was—and with good reason. The horse was one of only two plow animals that the villagers had. She, much like Will, was loaned out to whatever farm needed her.

"Come on Doris, not much further now," he told the horse, his voice a little strained from exertion.

For the first time since they'd started, he thought he could see the end to this grueling task. He had only about one more furrow to go. A slight thrill of exhausted anticipation and relief washed over him… and then disaster struck. There was an ugly crunching sound as the nose of the plow slammed into some buried object. Both Will and the horse were sent to a jolting halt.

Muttering darkly under his breath, Will guided the horse back several paces and the removed the guide reins from where he had placed them around his neck and shoulders. Letting them drop to the ground, he moved to see what it was that the plow had snagged on. Sure enough, there was a fairly small boulder about the size of Will's chest. Groaning, he knew that there was nothing for it but to dig the rock out and move it aside before he could continue on. Not for the first time he reflected dully on how much he hated this—the life of a farmer. Every day was a monotonous litany of endless work and exhaustion. He longed constantly for something more than this, more than the stagnant, stifling, back-breaking life he lived. But it wasn't as if he had anywhere else to go—well, not yet anyway.

He got on his hands and knees, using a flat rock and his fingers to dig around the offending boulder until he had freed it enough to pull it loose. He then hefted it towards the edge of the field and let it drop. He stopped to catch his breath, and then rub at his back. The rock had been painfully heavy. Begrudgingly, he made his way back to the hole he'd just dug in order to make sure there were no more rocks in the way.

As he did so, he caught the glint of something shiny he had missed before. Bending down again, he scooped it up and brushed the dirt off of it: a coin. And it was not just any coin; it was a gold, worth much more than the typical coppers and occasional silvers that were usually in circulation in the village. He clutched it tight before slipping it into his pocket, feeling a sense of disbelieving hope settle over him. He found himself grinning for perhaps the first time that day.

He could hardly contain his excitement as he moved to finish with the plowing, his new-found anticipation making much of his earlier exhaustion fade slightly. He managed to finish the last furrow just as the sun was starting to set. After the farmer had checked it over and nodded once in grudging approval, Will estimated that he had just enough time to head to his secret spot before he would be expected back at the farmer's home; or, more accurately put, at his barn—which was where Will lived most of the time, unless he was being loaned out to the other farms.

Will made his careful way into the woods that surrounded the little outlying village of Bawtry. As soon as he stepped into the first patch of shade from the trees, he felt his whole body relax a little—the woods were his sanctuary. Though he could never stay quite as long as he might have liked, it was where he wasn't just the village's farm hand, but rather _Will_. It was one of the few places that he could be himself.

He wove expertly through the trees and undergrowth, following a path that was only visible to him. He often changed directions at random, laying false paths and backtracking, even leaping from stone top to stone top in order to avoid being followed or trailed. He stopped only when he nearly reached his destination, looking around cautiously to make sure he had not been followed before plunging through a particularly thick tangle of trees and brush. Then he was there. He reached out a hand to touch the rough bark of his favorite tree: a huge hollow oak with the most perfect climbing branches.

He had found this tree a couple of years previously and it was one of his more closely guarded secrets. He ducked inside through the large hole at its base. It was here that he kept his most valued possessions: an old kerchief that had belonged to his mother, the crude bow and set of arrows he had made for himself, and the little cedar box. He made his way to the far corner to retrieve that box. Inside was all the coins he had ever found, saved, and earned for as long as he could remember—his one chance of finding a better life for himself, of achieving his biggest dream. It was these coins that he hoped to use in order to get into Aspiene Fief's Battleschool.

It was true that those who entered the kingdom's Battleschool usually came from the ranks of the kingdom's nobles, but he'd heard tell of a couple of stories about the sons of merchants getting in with the right recommendations and funds. Will had nearly reached the amount he'd heard of in those stories. He still wasn't sure how he'd go about getting the recommendations he needed, but he figured he'd cross that bridge when he came to it. He had always considered getting the coin he needed the harder part. It had taken him ages to earn the money he had because he was never paid for the farm work he did in the village—only for extra jobs he performed when he had the time, or by selling some very small game animals he had hunted with his flimsy handmade bow.

He was still a little worried about getting the recommendations he would need; after all, he did not know any of the kingdom's knights, nor did he know how to wield a sword. He was also a little on the small side—but he was strong. He was certain that he'd have what people called 'a growing spurt' by the time he saved up the last few coppers he would need. Besides, if it really was a problem, he could just tell the knights about his father, how he'd been a mighty knight and had died during the start of the war. That was what his mother had told him when he had asked about his father.

Will's father had been a hero. He could just picture him, a glittering armor-clad knight on a powerful battlehorse. He had sustained himself many a hard hungry night by imagining his father and dreaming of following in his footsteps. His father would want him to be a knight, he was sure of it. His mother would probably want the same thing. She had died when he was about four years old, helping people escape to safety when a raiding party of Morgarath's troops had breached the kingdom's borders. She had saved an entire family and him. That was when he'd been taken in by the people of the village of Bawtry. He didn't remember all that much of his mother, but he was certain that she would want more for him than the life of a farmer.

Will was going to leave this farm someday soon and he was going to become a knight. He had always promised himself that—and today it looked like he was truly close to reaching his dream. Grinning, he put the coin he had found with the others before carefully closing the box. He hurried back to the farm then, arriving at the barn just in time to meet the old farmer as he came from his house.

The man was holding a brimming bowl of soup and two entire rolls—leftovers from dinner for Will. Will's mouth dropped open slightly in surprise. Dorian must really have been in a good mood about the upcoming spring planting. They did not have much by the way of stores left over from winter, so he must have thought the day really worth celebrating to have had his wife cook so much bread. Will took the food gratefully from him and the man left without a word. Will took his supper inside the barn and made himself comfortable on some straw, thinking as he ate.

He estimated that there might be some time after dinner when he might sneak off the farm and pay a visit to Helen, the sweet elderly cunning woman who lived on the outskirts of the village. She, like Will, was a little bit of a village outcast. The villagers would go to her whenever they had need of some herbal remedies and a healer, but whispered about her and kept their distance otherwise. It was pretty similar to the way that people mainly ignored Will unless they needed him for something—or he'd gotten in trouble for not doing the work how they liked it, or for some prank or other. He and she had always shared a little bit of a kinship because of it.

Many of the villagers whispered that she was a witch and practice black magic—just like the fabled Rangers did. In all truthfulness, Will had thought that too for a while, but had learned better about eight years ago. She was nothing but an herbalist. He would go to her whenever he needed an understanding ear, was wrestling with some problem or other, when some of the farmer's disciple had left him a little too bruised, or when he was so hungry that he couldn't think of anything but food. She was the only one who treated him more like the boy he was rather than like the village plow horse. She was the only one who ever encouraged his curiosity, encouraged him to think for himself, and try to pursue his dreams.

He swallowed half of one of the rolls in a couple of bites and wrapped the other roll up in a piece of cloth to hide behind one of the barn shelves. The remaining half he would share with Helen when he would sneak out in a couple of hours. He was still so excited by the find of the day, excited by the prospect that he was only a few coppers short of reaching his dreams, that he felt he had to share this bursting sense of happiness with someone. Maybe, just maybe, things were starting to look up; maybe things could finally start to get better for him.

 **~x~X~x~**

Arald guided his horse forwards, the others in his party following suit. The big animal responded sluggishly, no doubt because he could sense his rider's heavy-hearted mood. Realizing this, the Baron tried to shake his mind free of the dark thoughts that had been plaguing him, but it was a wan little effort.

It had been no less than fifteen years since he had lost all his holdings in war. And he had spent nearly all of those years traveling about the fiefs, wherever Duncan needed him, in order to try and rally support or provide it.

It had been fifteen years of slow skirmish warfare: Morgarath trying to claim more territory and King Duncan attempting to repel those attempts while trying to reclaim his own former holdings. By now, everyone was thoroughly worn out by the seemingly endless fighting and the death and destruction of war—their kingdom torn apart and against each other from within and without. After all, Arald reflected dully, nobody ever truly won a civil war.

But, if Lady Pauline's latest intelligence reports were true, it would all be coming to an end soon enough. Morgarath had obviously gotten as sick of the endless skirmishes as the King and his men were. For fifteen years they had been at a stalemate, but Morgathath was obviously planning to end it soon in one massive, final assault.

That piece of intelligence was the main reason he was on the road now, to Highcliff fief—one of the boarder fiefs. It was ruled by Baron Douglass. But it wasn't Douglass that Arald was intent upon seeing now, but rather his Battlemaster: Sir David—formerly of Caraway fief.

After the disastrous battle of Hackham Heath—the result of which had been the King losing virtually half his Kingdom—King Duncan had posted his best commanders and tacticians to serve as the Battlemasters of the new border fiefs. Sir David was a brilliant tactician and commander. His input and service were highly valued by the King, so he had been a natural choice.

Duncan had learned long ago that it was easier and more efficient to send Arald and his retinue to the boarder fiefs for small tactical meetings than it was to request the Battlemasters to come to a meeting point and leave the fiefs unguarded.

Arald reined in slightly as the castle came into sight, poised on a peninsula that jutted out into the sea, the familiar watch tower and flag system in place.

He was let inside fairly easily and his rank allowed him to gain admittance with Baron Douglass quickly. He still had to wait a good half hour before he was seen though. Arald shook his head at that. In his opinion, there was little enough room for petty mind and power games like that while the war was going on—where a few minutes could be the difference between life or death, defeat or victory.

He stepped inside, his Battlemaster, Rodney, following, and caught sight of the heavyset Baron sitting languidly. The flash of irritation Arald had been harboring seemed only to grow. He tried not to let it show as he began the customary greetings. After a few moments of exchanging formalities with Douglass, Arald was about to bring up the reason for his coming. But Douglass beat him to it, his close-together eyes narrowing slightly.

"I assume the reason for your coming is that you wish to speak with _my_ Battlemaster?" Douglass said offhandedly, putting a little more stress than necessary on the word 'my'.

"I do, as a matter of fact." Arald nodded and then asked, "where is Battlemaster David?"

"Considering the day, he's probably out wandering the battlements," Baron Douglass said, sighing slightly as if bored with the matter. "He asks for a day of leave this time every year. And how can I deny him? He serves me well."

"Ah, right," Arald said, understanding. "Thank you, sir." He nodded to Douglass who looked a little aggrieved by the informal title. Arald just shrugged it off. Even though he had no land and therefore no actual power, he was still a baron and their ranks were equal.

Truth be told, he had always found Douglass to be a little pompous. In fact, if it weren't for David, their friendship, and his brilliant tactical mind, Arald probably wouldn't visit this fief as much as he did.

He left the Baron's office, Sir Rodney following, and made his way to the outer wall. Sure enough, he caught sight of David's sturdy form atop the west wall, staring off into the distance. He was about to mount the steps when Rodney cleared his throat.

"What did Douglass mean about David being up here 'considering the day'?"

"Putting it simply, today is the anniversary of the day that Sir David lost his son," Arald said, his words soft.

As he said it, Rodney's eyes widened with understanding.

"I didn't realize that that was today," Arald's Battlemaster said, his tone now as somber as his lord's had been.

He glanced sympathetically at the other Battlemaster, standing alone and stiff-shouldered. Rodney's wife had passed several years ago, so he well knew the hurt of losing someone. The circumstances surrounding David's loss were different. Also, Rodney was wise enough to never presume or claim to know another's pain exactly, but he supposed he did know a bit of, or at the very least understood, the other knight's pain.

"That whole incident was bad business start to finish," Rodney said then with a soft grunt of disapproval as he began to mount the stairs side by side with Arald.

"It was that," Arald agreed.

"I can't even remember the lad's name."

"It was Gilan," Arald supplied, the softest note of bitterness tingeing his words.

Rodney heard it and looked sympathetically at his lord. "It was some years ago now, and you can't blame yourself for what happened."

"It's just that I can't help but think that, if I had gotten there a little sooner, I might have intervened."

"You did what you could." Rodney shrugged. "And that's really all a person can do."

Arald sighed and then nodded. "I suppose your right."

The two old friends had reached the battlement walkway and crossed it—ceasing their fairly insensitive conversation for David's sake. The two made their way to the lone figure. He turned as he heard their approach and offered them a smile of greeting. Though Arald caught a flash of sorrow, or perhaps regret, lingering in the knight's eyes before he shielded it.

"Milord, sir," he said, nodding at each of them respectively. "What brings you here so early? I wasn't expecting you until next month."

Arald tactfully chose not to mention David's odd position or the past and instead answered the knight's question.

"There was nothing to keep me on the road any longer than necessary." He replied, reaching out to clasp arms with the other man, "also, Pauline has gotten word from one of her contacts. Apparently, there are signs that Morgarath is beginning to build the ranks of his standing army—even rumors that he is planning to hire Scandians."

"Her contact must have gotten pretty far into Morgarth's lands to have gotten that kind of information. Is it reliable, do you think?"

"Coming from this particular contact, yes, I would say so. He's done work for her before and she tells me that he's good at what he does. Based on the little I've seen of him, I'm inclined to agree. Besides, I leave that sort of planning to her anyway. She's good at it and knows her business; if she trusts him, then that's good enough for me."

David nodded. "For me also." He knew well how good the elegant courier was at her job. Then he frowned slightly. If the contact was indeed right, David instantly grasped the grave implications of the news. "I can see why you came early."

"Yes," Arald agreed, "the King wants us to start preparing."

* * *

 **A/N:** Thanks again for reading! Feedback is very appreciated and constructive criticism too! Next chapter will be about Horace mostly but might include others depending on how long it gets. (And in case anyone was worried, Gilan isn't really dead—which I don't think is too much of a spoiler since I already said that he, Will, Halt, Horace and Evanlyn were going to be my main focus in this book X). I wish you all awesome weeks!


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Here's chapter three! I know the beginning of this story might be a little slow so far, since I have to introduce so many different characters (and I'm sorry about that and am trying my best to make it interesting despite that), but I really hope that it will eventually turn into story that's well worth the wait of the slower start. After this chapter there will only be one more of character introducing and so I hope it'll start picking up into the main plot. Thanks for reading and your support. Anyway, here's Horace.

 **TrustTheCloak:** Thank you. I really like David too, and I'm really glad you think I got him right _—_ I was a little worried about it. He's a little tricky because he doesn't get all that much screen-time in the books (which is sad). If I had to give a chapter estimate I would probably say somewhere in the 20's range. It really depends on how long it will take to write all the things/scenes in my outline, so that number might change as I continue to write. Thanks so much for the review!

 **jaymzNshed:** Poor Will indeed, stuck doing something he never wanted. That's never fun. Horace will be in this chapter and I promise I'll get to Gilan as soon as I can. Thank you so much for the review!

 **Drogonslover98:** Things will definitely get better, and occasionally sometimes worse, as things go on and characters run into each other XD Thanks for the review! It made my day!

 **WisperRanger26:** Awww thanks :3 I'm glad you like it so far. I agree, splendid is indeed a splendid word XD Thanks so much for the review and your kind words. I really appreciate it!

* * *

 **Chapter 3**

 **~x~X~x~**

 _(A Few Weeks Previous)_

 **~x~X~x~**

 _They had cornered him again–this time behind the armory. Fifteen-year-old Horace glanced up almost despairingly at the trio of second-year cadets that had him surrounded—the same cadets who had been making his life a living hell for a year now. It seemed that, whenever he managed to find some secluded place to escape their attention, they always seemed to track him down eventually._

 _"What are you doing here?" Josh, the leader of the three sneered, "Trying to hide from everybody?"_

 _"If my academic scores were as bad as his, I'd hide too," Gabe, the tallest of the three, added._

 _"You're a disgrace," Talo, the third one, said, looking directly at Horace. "You make all of us look bad, look weak."_

 _Horace flinched slightly. He knew that they were right. He'd been having trouble all year trying to keep up with the academic portion of classes. The barbs hurt; but, amidst that pain, he could not quite snub the slightest flash of anger. It was mostly those three's fault that he was so behind in his classes. Their constant brutish attention was part of the reason he couldn't turn in his papers on time and had trouble focusing in class. Then the anger died. If he was any sort of real knight he would be able to take it and deal with it easily. This sort of attention from the elder apprentices was part of the toughening part of Battleschool after all—or so Horace thought. As far as he knew, it was normal practice, tradition even, for the older cadets to treat the younger ones this way._

 _Horace had known nothing about Battleschool before he'd come. He'd only had the very vaguest of notions about knighthood, honor, and the oaths and codes of chivalry. He'd had a mental image in his mind of glittering armor-clad knights doing honorable combat while lesser folk watched in amazed admiration. He'd thought of Battleschool as a place for glamour and adventure; people looked up to and respected knights. Consequently, he hadn't expected the reality—hard physical conditioning and lessons—being so drastically different from his notion… and so he also had no idea that Josh, Gabe and Talo's actions, their systematic bullying, was actually frowned upon by the Battlemaster and other knights._

 _Now, however, Horace found himself backing slightly as the three got closer to him, crowding into his personal space._

 _"I think it's high time that somebody taught you a lesson about not making you fellows cadets look incompetent," Josh said. "You're weak and it's making all the rest of us weaker too. Get on your hands and toes!" he commanded, "Twenty pushups."_

 _Horace hesitated only for a moment before getting down into push up position and then beginning the exercise. He had made it to ten when somebody, Josh probably, put his boot heavily on Horace's back, weighing him down. After a few more pushups with all that added extra weight, try as he might, Horace no longer had the strength to rise up for the next one and fell flat on his stomach, utterly exhausted._

 _"Pathetic," Josh snarled and kicked Horace's prone form in the ribs. Horace gasped and tried to curl in on himself but not before Gabe's kick glanced off his nose. He felt a small amount of blood beginning to drip down his face and his eyes filled with involuntary tears from the blow._

 _"Crying again, baby?" Talo asked. "Why don't you leave and cry to mummy? Oh, that's right, you don't have one do you?"_

 _That was true as well. Horace was an orphan. His father had died during the early years of the war and his mother had died in childbirth. For a while, he had lived in the Ward that Baron Arald had created at Redmont. But when Redmont had fallen to Morgarath, and everyone had been forced to evacuate, Baron Arald had worked hard to find him and the other Wards a home. Horace had eventually been sent to live at Drayden Castle under Baron Tyler. Baron Tyler was a friend of Baron Arald's and he had also created a Ward in his castle for the children of men and women in his service who had died in the line of duty._

 _The children were raised in the castle by matrons, taught how to read and write and then offered the chance to apply to accepted as an apprentice to any of the castle's crafts masters—and that included the Battleschool. It had been Horace's dream, ever since he was a child, to join the ranks of the Knights of Araluen; so he'd immediately gravitated to the Battleschool. He was big for his age as well as athletic, all qualifications that had allowed him to be instantly accepted. That day had been one of the brightest in his memories… but it hadn't lasted long…_

 _Because he'd grown up in the Ward, it had kept him from making friends already with the other cadets prior to their apprenticeship. That had made him a bit of an oddity; and the fact that he was an orphan and had been raised in the Ward only compounded the fact. It all worked together to make him rather a target. No sooner than a few weeks after he'd started his training, he'd been sought out by the school's resident bullies._

 _All year he'd put up with their relentless attacks, their slights, their forcing him into performing extra physical exercises. And because Josh's band had singled him out for their attention, none of the other cadets had dared to try and befriend him—for fear of becoming targets themselves. Horace had just endured it, dealing with the pain and loneliness as all his bright dreams for knighthood and honor faded steadily into a far more ugly reality._

 _He grit his teeth as Talo delivered another crushing kick to his prone form and tried to scoot back out of reach, rolling and then rising to his feet. His three tormentors looked furious at his sudden display of defiance. In fact, they probably would have moved instantly to make him pay for it, had they not been interrupted by the sound of footfalls heading towards them. They all froze and turned towards the sound in time to one of the senior knights._

 _The knight's eyes swept over them before landing on Horace. He frowned slightly as he saw Horace's bloody nose, assuming that he'd just caught these four brawling for the fun of it behind the armory and away from watching eyes. Under normal circumstances, he probably would have called them out for it—dealt out some quick punishment for their lack of discipline. But he had more urgent matters on his mind at the moment._

 _"You," he pointed to Horace, "Cadet Horace Altman, the Battlemaster has requested your presence."_

 _Horace flinched slightly, feeling a knot beginning to grow in his stomach. This was the week when all the Battleschool cadets were assessed. One by one they would be called to the Battlemaster and the other senior knights in order to have their performance over the year reviewed—and to have it decided whether or not they were fit to proceed into the next year of their training. Or, in the case of the fifth year cadets, whether or not they were fit to be knighted._

 _Horace had been dreading his turn all week. It was true that Battleschool was not what he'd expected, true that he grew more disillusioned with it every day, true that by now he fairly hated the place… but it was also true that he still desperately wanted to be a knight… and that he had absolutely nowhere else to go. He clenched his fists as he moved past Josh, Gabe, and Talo to follow after the senior knight._

 _A few minutes later found him standing at attention before the Battlemaster and his senior knights. They had asked him a few questions, had spent some time in discussion, and now the Battlemaster stepped forwards, clearing his throat before he spoke. Horace felt his heart rate accelerate and he swallowed nervously, wiping his sweaty palms on his surcoat._

 _"Your combat scores were within acceptable margins," the Battlemaster began, "but I'm afraid I cannot say the same for your academic scores. What's more, you've shown a consistent penchant for arriving late to class, handing in late and sloppily finished assignments, for taking poor care of your kit, weapons, and uniform."_

 _It also appeared to the Battlemaster that the boy had a predilection towards fighting and a general inability to make friends or work in a team. He sometimes sported bruises, his attitude often left something to be desired, and all the other students tended to keep their distance from him. But he did not say that last aloud._

 _"I and the other instructors have taken all these factors into account and have come to the regrettable decision that you are not fit to continue on."_

 _Horace, for his part, could only stand there in numbed shock. He'd been half expecting this, true, but he had been hoping against hope that it wouldn't happen. That was not even to mention the fact that hearing the words as irrevocable and final was enormously different than just imagining and dreading to hear them._

 _He was going to be dropped from Battleschool. He had failed. The hurt of that knowledge was a bitter one, but it didn't last long on its own. A sudden fear vied for a place with the pain. What would he do now? He had nowhere else to go. He directed his now wide, almost despairing eyes towards the Battlemaster._

 _He tried to speak, but nothing came of the effort. He swallowed, licked his dry lips and tried again, "Sir—"_

 _But the Battlemater raised a hand to cut him short, "Our decision is final," he said flatly, taking away any chance for Horace to try and beg, or promise better, in exchange for clemency. Then he relented slightly as he took in the boy's distressed expression and the tears that he was obviously trying desperately to hold back. "I and the senior knights have discussed your unique situation," he said more gently, "Normally we would simply send a dropped cadet home to their family. But since that is not an option with you, we have spoken with the Baron and have decided to give you some supplies and money. We hope you will put both to good use as a means to find yourself employment elsewhere and eventually build a life for yourself."_

 _Perhaps the offer was meant to be merciful and kind but, at the moment, Horace could not register it. All he knew was that this was it for him. He'd just lost everything, including his dreams_.

 **~x~X~x~**

 _Present Day_

 **~x~X~x~**

The small settlement looked like many others he had passed through over the course of the past couple of weeks. It was comprised mostly of daub and waddle houses with thatched roofs. People were milling around, going about their daily tasks. A few of them sent curious and sometimes even slightly wary glances his way.

In small villages like this, everyone tended knew everyone else so strangers were often treated with some suspicion—especially since the war. They viewed him with slight suspicion, yes, but no outright distrust or hostility. Travelers were not uncommon, despite the state of the kingdom. That fact was evidenced by the combination tavern and inn that he could see nearer the end of the street.

Even as Horace thought it, he could smell the food cooking there. It made his mouth water; he was so very hungry. And the thought of sleeping in a proper bed made all the aches and travel-sore muscles in his body seem all the more noticeable. He felt absently at the now pitifully thin purse at his waist. There was not enough coin in there to buy him a meal, let alone a bed.

He gritted his teeth as he drew level with the building, trying hard not to think of the hot food inside. But the ache in his stomach made that nearly impossibly hard. As he went past, two men walked out. The scent of the food wafted out all the stronger through the open doors, along with the sounds of lively conversation and laughter of the diners and drinkers within—friends and family sharing in each other's company. That made a different sort of hollow feeling take root in his stomach and he doubled his pace. The feeling of being alone despite being surrounded by people wasn't a new sensation to him. He'd lived with that and dealt with it before. As he'd done many times over the past year, he shoved the feeling roughly aside…. Unfortunately, shoving the hungry feeling aside wasn't quite as easy.

He stopped short then, his mind working. A tavern and inn was usually the hub of a town…. He fingered the scant purse at his side once more as he turned back towards the building, debating with himself. He backtracked, and then hesitated before the heavy wooden door for a moment. Finally coming to a decision, he straightened and entered.

There was a momentary hush in conversation as he made it inside and the people looked to see who the newcomer was. A few of them turned to assess him as he stood highlighted by the open door, blinking as he tried to adjust his sight to the dim interior of the building. They saw a youth dressed in fairly simple travel-stained clothes. At his hip, he carried a simple sword in a rather tattered sheath. That was nothing out of the ordinary; most people who traveled did so armed. The roads hadn't been safe since the start of the war fifteen years ago. And especially not since this fief, once peacefully settled in the middle of the kingdom, had become a border fief.

Horace nodded once at the people who looked at him and then continued on his way, keeping his posture straight and ready, trying to give off the impression that he was neither a threat nor a potential target. It seemed to work. The slight feeling of tension that had grown when he'd first entered seemed to abate fairly quickly after that and the people when back to their drinks and food. Horace let out a soft sigh of relief before approaching the counter that ran along one end of the room.

"Can I help you?" The question was asked by a tall large-boned woman who stood behind the counter. Horace guessed that she was the innkeeper and tavern owner. She didn't wait for him to answer and continued speaking, "There are lamb-shanks, gravy, and steamed vegetables today," she told him, assuming that he'd come for the food: he looked a little young to have come for a drink.

Horace nodded before asking, "How much?"

"Five coppers," she said cheerfully.

Horace shifted uncomfortably and then licked his lips before daring to venture, "Is there anything that I could get for one copper?"

She frowned a little at that and, for a moment, Horace thought he caught a slight look of sympathy come into the woman's eye. That was new. Usually, people just got frosty with him or asked him to leave when he didn't have enough coin. She seemed to think for a moment before she nodded, stepping back into the kitchen and coming out with a large warm bread roll that she'd generously buttered and a small cup of coffee.

He nodded gratefully at her and passed over his single copper. He'd hardly eaten anything in a week and the roll and coffee tasted absolutely delicious… but far too short lived. It was all gone within a matter of moments. He stared sadly at the empty wooden plate for a moment, his stomach still growling slightly with hunger before he caught sight of the innkeeper returning from delivering food to another table. He took a breath in order to get up the nerve he needed to ask the question he'd come in to ask in the first place. After all, the woman had seemed kinder than he'd expected.

"Excuse me," he ventured.

She stopped and smiled a question at him and he took that as permission to continue, "Do you know if there are any jobs that—"

She was already shaking her head before he was finished.

"You'll not find much by way of jobs here. Spring planting's been over for a couple of days now, and John, the blacksmith, found himself an apprentice just last week. Nobody else is short of hands here. Sorry," she added, her tone a touch apologetic.

He nodded despondently. That was usually the way of it; in these little hamlets, there were few job positions open—especially when it was not planting and harvest season. Also, he'd found that, often, the few job positions that were open were ones that he couldn't take because he lacked skills in those areas. He knew nothing about milling, smithing, carpentry… or even farming, if he was honest with himself.

Again he found himself with the prospect of having no way to earn coin—and so no way to buy the food and supplies that he so desperately needed.

When he'd first left Drayden Castle and the Battleschool three weeks ago, he'd had little idea of where to go or what to do. He'd still been reeling over being dropped and losing everything. Consequently, he had just picked a direction at random and had started walking. And, for a long time after that, that was all he could think to do. He had no family or friends to go to, no idea what to do with himself.

It wasn't long after that that his meager supplies had started running low and he began to realize that he was going to have to find some way of making money if he wanted to survive. By the time he had pulled himself out of the sense of shock and pain enough to think clearly, he found that he'd wandered very far to the south where there was not much except for little outlying hamlets: none of which would have jobs for skills that he possessed.

He knew how to read and write, how to ride a horse, and, though he'd only been training for a year, he was fairly decent with the sword he carried and knew how to use polearm weapons as well as how to joust… all of which were skills that were not exactly in high demand out in the rural towns. He had a vague idea now that, instead of traveling southward, he probably should have tried to travel to the next fiefs over. But, by the time he'd realized that, he already lacked supplies and coin enough to backtrack and travel to one of the adjoining fiefs.

And now it seemed that he was out of luck again. Then he frowned slightly as a thought occurred to him: even if he could make to another fief, he didn't have the faintest idea how he might find employment—or if anyone would even accept him. Considering how things had gone for him so far, he rather doubted it.

Nevertheless, he politely thanked the innkeeper and rose to take his leave. It was still fairly early in the day yet, so he continued on down the road he'd been traveling on already. It snaked through the farmland and then disappeared into the woods.

He really didn't know what else he could do besides move on towards the next town. He headed down the path as it wound its way through the thick and shadowed woodlands and around thick areas of scrub and brush. The air was still and humid under the trees, smelling of leaf mold and moist earth. The clusters of trees he passed seemed to blend into one another and he kept his head down, focusing mostly on the path he followed. He passed one other solitary traveler, but neither he nor the other seemed inclined to stop and speak or even acknowledge each other's presence more than glancing warily at each other—a sign of the harsh times they lived in, Horace supposed idly.

Horace stopped for a break a few times, finding some exposed roots, large rocks, or tree stumps to sit on. The third time he did so, he began to have the uncomfortable feeling that someone was watching him. He'd gradually been developing that skill over his past year of trying to dodge the bullies at the Battleschool. He had gotten pretty adept at it—and had never been wrong about it before. He frowned, opening his eyes and looking down the path in both directions, expecting to see another traveler. But there was nothing.

That fact was almost more unsettling than seeing an unfriendly person might have been. He got quickly to his feet, his hand reaching for the hilt of his simple sword. He glanced all around himself, at the trees, brush, and shadows... but saw nothing. Valiantly trying to suppress a shudder, he walked on, quickening his pace. He didn't take another break for several hours.

By the end of the day, the nourishing effects of the roll he'd eaten were all but gone and his stomach growled hungrily. He really needed to find some way to get food. He wished then that he had a bow or sling or some such weapon that he could use to hunt, or that he knew how to set snares or traps. Then he realized he might as well wish for food to drop down out of the sky.

"I wish," he muttered to himself. His stomach growled again as if in agreement. "Oh shut up," he admonished his stomach, "it isn't going to happen."

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he caught sight of a man and his pregnant wife sitting around a fire in a clearing ahead of him. He could see a handcart pulled off to the side of the road and guessed that they also were travelers. He could also see a few small bags of provisions near the man. They were obviously getting ready to sit down to supper. Horace's stomach growled again, for perhaps the millionth time that day. His ever-growing hunger suddenly made him desperate and brave enough to beat down his pride a little and try something he wouldn't have dared a couple of days ago.

He altered direction and began cutting at an angle towards the couple. The man saw him and rose to his feet. He was roughly dressed and had the looks of a farmer or common laborer. However, in his hands, he carried a quarterstaff. He held it up threateningly as Horace approached. Horace tried to ease the man's worry by holding his hands to the side, away from his sword and offering him and his wife what he hoped looked like a pleasant and friendly smile.

"Good past noon," Horace began quickly, "I don't mean any harm; I was just wondering if you might have any food to spare. I don't have any coin to pay you, but I could do something for you instead, like fetch you firewood for the night or—"

"No," the man said quickly, cutting him short, "we've barely enough for ourselves as it is without having to share it with every pathetic beggar kid that passes down the road. Get on your way!"

The cold refusal stung slightly. He felt the beginnings of an angry flush spreading across his face at the man's derisory tone and the insults that laced his words: _pathetic, beggar, kid_. He had been rubbed raw over the course of the year by insults like that. What made it hurt all the worse was that he knew that they were all true… and he hated that they were.

His eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the man. He carried a quarterstaff true, but Horace could tell by the clumsy way the man held the weapon that he wasn't very skilled or familiar with it. He realized that he could probably easily take this man in a duel… and then take the food too. For a moment the idea took hold, tempted him. He felt his hand straying towards the hilt of his sword.

Then his angry gaze landed on the man's pregnant wife. She was standing nervously to the side, her eyes wide with fear. He looked back to the bedraggled man and felt the anger die as he realized that they probably needed the food just as much as he did. As the anger died, it began to steadily be replaced with an uncomfortable feeling of shame and guilt that he had even had the thought to rob them in the first place. What had he been thinking? It went against everything he believed in, against the knight's code of chivalry that he had sworn to follow. For a moment it scared him badly that he had come so dangerously close to compromising himself, his principles—and all for a few stupid scraps of food. He moved his hand away from his sword and took several backward steps.

"Forget I asked," he said quickly, "I'm sorry I bothered you."

With that, he turned away and moved quickly down the road again, leaving the man and his wife behind him. After he had made it past a bend in the road, he thought he again felt the sensation of someone's eyes on him. He turned quickly around, expecting to perhaps see that the man had followed him—just to make sure he was really leaving. But for the second time that day there was nothing, nobody there. There was just the fading light of early evening, the trees, brush, shadows and the sound of a few birds as they settled in for the night. He shuddered again, but this time he lacked the strength and energy to quicken his pace.

 **~x~X~x~**

"I think you should turn him loose," Halt said, stepping out of the shadows in the dimly lit tavern. He had an arrow on the string of his longbow, aimed unwaveringly at the bandit's leader.

"And why should we do tha—" The lead bandit started to ask sneeringly, but before he'd even finished speaking and arrow had gone through his knife hand, forcing him to drop it. Only milliseconds later, another went straight through one of his calves. He dropped to the ground, yelling in agony. Halt was just as quick with the next two bandits.

A man who had been watching all these proceedings had moved swiftly to free the captured knight as soon as Halt loosed his arrows. The young man pulled free of the post and charged the last remaining bandit, bowling him over entirely with a swift and deadly punch to his jaw. The man crumpled senseless to the floor and the knight bend to pick up his sword.

"That's why," Halt said quietly in belated answer to the bandit leader's question.

Halt looked up to see that the entire tavern, including the young knight, were looking at him in something akin to fearful amazement over his speed and deadly accuracy—but all Halt could do was sigh inwardly. Now he really would have to move on from this hamlet. He couldn't very well stay after making a scene like that. It drew far too much attention—and not attention of the profitable kind. Having come to that conclusion, he saw no reason to put it off any longer. He turned to leave when he was stopped by the young knight.

"Wait Sira," he called, making his way over, "thank you for what you did."

Halt managed a nod at the young man and tried to continue on his way, but again the knight stopped him.

"Wait, you cannot leave without allowing me the chance to show my gratitude. How can I repay you?"

Halt turned to face him fully then, levelly, "Well then…" he paused, silently asking the knight's name.

The young man understood and provided it, "Guillaume."

"Well then, Guillaume, you want to do something for me?" he asked blankly. When the young knight nodded, he added, "then go out and do something useful with your life instead of wandering into taverns and causing trouble or planning to cause trouble elsewhere. There are plenty of innocents, women, and children that could use protecting—or isn't that a part of the knight's code anymore?"

He half expected the knight to get angry at the scathing tone he'd used, or the implications he'd made, but instead, the knight nodded seriously.

"I can do that," he said.

Halt raised an incredulous eyebrow as he looked Guillaume over and could only find sincerity in his expression. It was almost a ridiculous turn around if it was true…but perhaps near death experiences and barely escaping torture had a way of changing priorities a little, he thought with a mental shrug.

"If that is how I can repay you then I will. I don't know where I'd be without your help."

"Short a nose," Halt pointed out mildly.

The knight's face flushed slightly, but it seemed more a reaction to embarrassment than anger. A rueful smile touched his lips.

"Then I should thank you all the more; I am rather fond of this nose."

 _"I'm rather fond of this nose."_ Halt stiffened, an uncomfortable stirring growing in his mind. He had the distinct impression that he had heard those words before. They were so familiar, and so was this situation. He could almost swear that this had happened before. A shudder traveled down his spine as he cast desperately through his memories, trying to find it… and failing. The odd disconnected feeling began to grow until it was unsettling. He felt…wrong. He nodded once at the knight, saying a quick farewell, before turning swiftly towards the door. He needed air, needed sunlight.

He shivered slightly as he stepped outside, despite the fact that it was a fairly warm early evening out. He took a few deep steadying breaths, trying to rid himself of that feeling of déjà vu, the feeling of wrongness. _This wasn't how it was supposed to be._ He glanced at the setting sun and then at the many people making their way down the fairly busy village street before him. But the feeling didn't go away. Worse still, his hands seemed to be trembling slightly. He clenched them to stop it, trying again to use calm and steady breaths. When that failed, he began pacing down the street. He was getting a headache on top of everything.

He silently cursed that red-headed knight for triggering whatever this was. Then he shook his head, confused. He distinctly remembered now that the knight's hair had been brown. Why had he thought his hair had been red? He put a hand to his head, feeling hot and flustered as he made his way down the crowded street. He felt lightheaded.

 _"Was that really necessary?"_

 _"No. But it was really satisfying."_

 _"I'm rather fond of this nose."_

 _"There's a lot to be fond of."_

As he walked he felt his eye being drawn to the oddest things: a woman in a white gown, a tall athletic looking warrior dressed in red, a young boy with unruly brown hair and bright, intelligent, eager eyes. _"I just wanted to ask you… what does a Ranger actually do?_ A youth with a wide cheerful, yet slightly mischievous, smile, _"Admit it Halt, This time I've got the best of you, and you know how many years I've been trying."_ A slightly overweight but burly soldier, a man in a hooded cloak, a youth dressed in white with guileless eyes.

He was finding it hard to catch his breath, and his head was pounding now. An older man smiling as he touched a finger to the side of his nose in a knowing gesture _, "I have my sources."_ Red hair again, _"I know how much she means to you."_ _There was a castle with three sides that seemed to glow red in the sun. Red Mountain. There was a battlefield where the enemy was comprised mainly of ghastly animal-like creatures._ And he knew their name: _wargals. There was a sergeant lying mortally wounded on a field, Halt had promised him something, promised that he would..._

Was he going mad, he wondered? He stopped trying to walk then. He tried to re-gather himself, regain his own thought process. He felt almost faint.

In front of him, a woman was selling trinkets. His eye fell upon several leaves shaped cleverly from metal. They were made for decoration, and there were many different types: ash, birch, rowan, elm. But he had eyes only for the oak leaf. His whole life he had felt an odd connection to oak and now he couldn't seem to look away. That shining piece of metal seemed a focal point for his spiraling mind. His headache grew into an almost unbearable level. Black splotches began to assail his vision. His legs felt weak. He saw the ground rising up towards him and knew no more.

* * *

 **A/N:** Thanks again for reading! Next week is the last introduction chapter and will focus on Lady Pauline, Alyss, and Crowley. Reviews really give me the motivation to get going and constructive criticism helps me improve, both are very appreciated.

 **Note:** In case anybody wanted to know, Guillaume is pronounced _'Gee' 'ohm'_ which is not exactly how it looks XD


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Here's chapter 4. This one, especially the second half, was really fun to write, so I hope it's just as fun/enjoyable to read. I'm going out of town this week and school starts back up for me right when I get back (I'll be a full-time college student now, no more dual credits cause I'm done with high school! yay!) so expect updates to be a little sporadic after this chapter, because school always has this nasty way of eating up all my free/writing time...which is really kinda depressing. Thanks to everyone who read, followed, favorited, and reviewed. I really appreciate it.

 **TrustTheCloak:** That's awesome that you work with horses. I hope I didn't distract you too badly from your job XD. I agree that Halt and Crowley without each other is terrible, they're best bros after all. Don't worry though, they will be getting together again. Thanks so much for the review! :)

 **WhisperRanger26:** Don't worry, Horace has a plan to get some food... it might not be a very good plan, but he does have one. To answer your question, Guillaume is pretty much just a young Gallican knight. I made him have a lot of similarities to the others though because he was the catalyst for Halt's memories. As for Gilan though, this chapter might help explain where he is. Thanks so much for the review! It made my day!

 **Dragonslover98** : I'm sorry about that; thanks so much for catching that! I promise to answer all those questions as soon as I can. Well, I did say in the beginning that only the person who was holding the stone when it went off would remember the change, but Halt was hitting it out of Morgarath's hand when it was going off, just barely touching it... XD Thanks for the review! I really appreciate it.

* * *

 **Chapter 4**

 **~x~X~x~**

 _(Around The Time of The Tournament at Gorlan)_

 **~x~X~x~**

 _Crowley rode with a heavy heart, unable to take in, let alone appreciate, the beauty of the forests and fields that made up the outer edge of Gorlan Fief. He distinctly remembered that, only about a week ago or so ago, he had managed to talk himself out of a similar mood—a mood that had been caused by reflecting on the sorry state of the kingdom and the Ranger Corps. In fact, he had blithely told his horse Cropper that he'd learned that there was neither use nor sense in moping about things. He'd meant it at the time, and had even stopped moping then… but that had been before the incident at the tavern. His hands clenched tightly around the reins._

 _He'd stopped there for a drink and some food and had had an unpleasant run-in with some of Morgarath's men. He couldn't suppress a wince as he thought it, the pain was still too fresh in his mind. The three men had had far too much to drink and had been harassing a woman. He had stepped in to stop them, only to lose the momentum of the fight when he'd accidentally stumbled into one of the tavern's roof supports. The soldiers had cornered him, tossed his bow out of reach, and tied him to the post, threatening to cut off his nose for spoiling their fun._

 _They probably would have done so had Crowley not jerked his head to the side at the last minute. As it was, the knife slash had still cut his face badly from the bridge of his nose near his left eye all the way across his nose and down to the right side of his face near his mouth and lower cheek. The men were so drunk and angry that they probably would have tried again, after their initial failure, had not the woman he'd first tried to protect cut him free from the post so he could fight back. She'd managed to get behind it with a table knife while the men had been focused on hurting him._

 _And Crowley had indeed fought back, despite the pain and the mess of blood that had been streaming freely down his face. He'd still had his saxe and the soldiers' swords were far less wieldy in the enclosed space. Crowley had dealt with all three of them. In the end, they had run for it, and Crowley had been too injured to try and pursue them. He'd spent the past week bedridden, under the care of the grateful woman he'd saved, his face covered in bandages._

 _Even now that the bandages and the stitches had come off, it still hurt. He knew that it was going to scar—and scar badly. He brought his hand up to his face as he thought it, his fingers tracing the rough edges of the ugly wound before he let his arm drop despondently._

I think it makes you look more distinguished _, Cropper tried, obviously sensing his master's mood._

 _But Crowley wasn't having it at the moment. He just felt… empty._

 _"Now's not the time," he told his horse, his words a little bitter._

Too early? _If a horse could ever be said to look innocent, then Cropper was managing it._

 _Despite himself, Crowley felt the touch of a smile break across his face, "far too early."_

I thought you'd promised not to mope anymore.

 _"In case you haven't noticed, the kingdom is in just as much of a sorry state as it was before—and, on top of it all, Morgarath and his men have carved a permanent reminder of it on my face."_

 _His eyes darkened as he thought of Morgarath and what had happened the day before when he'd gone to Gorlan Castle to report the tavern incident. He had gotten nothing but insults and condescension from the Baron—that and:_ "I certainly want to help you," _purred in a way that could only ever have been meant to mock_ , "but you don't seem to have any proof that it was indeed my men, and I don't see them with you. For all I know, you simply cut yourself trying to shave. Therefore, I'm afraid that I'm unable to do anything. My hands are tied."

 _Crowley's teeth clenched slightly as he thought it. He was on the very edge of losing his temper. Honestly, though, he didn't know what else he could have expected from the man that he was certain—even if he couldn't prove it—was behind the weakening of the Ranger Corps: getting the true Rangers banished or executed because of trumped-up charges of crimes and treason. His mentor Pritchard had been killed that way… and Crowley hadn't gotten the news of his mentor's arrest until it was too late for him to do anything about it, too late to try and save him. He felt a lump growing in his throat as he thought of Pritchard and his fate._

 _Crowley was also certain that Morgarath was behind the plot to discredit Prince Duncan and leave him languishing in the borderlands. He was positive that Morgarath wanted the throne of King Oswald for himself. His meeting with Morgarath had as good as confirmed all his suspicions in his mind. But the question he was left with now was: what exactly was he going to do about it? What could he do about it?_

 _He shook himself slightly as he took stock of where he was—just past the border of Gorlan fief and close to the winding Crowsfoot River by the look of it. The path was narrow here, worn deeply into the thick forest by countless ages of use. Suddenly, he heard the sound of hoof beats coming from behind him. He turned to see a rider at full gallop waving his hands frantically for Crowley to clear the way._

 _The long-billed, crested cap he wore marked him as a messenger or dispatch rider. Crowley could just make out the insignia on the breast of his jacket. His teeth clenched tighter: it was Morgarath's lightning bolt emblem._

 _"Clear the way! Dispatches from Lord Morgarath," the man shouted arrogantly as if in confirmation of Crowley's observation. He showed no sign of letting up on his fast pace. He would plow Crowley and Cropper over if they didn't move. Narrowing his eyes in barely controlled anger, Crowley moved his horse to one of the edges of the road so the man could pass._

 _"Out of my way, curse you!" the man shouted, despite the fact that it was obvious that he'd already done so. That yell was the last straw for Crowley. His temper snapped fully then. He was tired of being bullied by Morgarath and his men. Rage bubbled up in him and he un-slung his bow as the man rode past him, hooking it over the man's head at the last second and then hauling back, pulling him bodily from his horse. The man crashed to the ground._

 _Crowley dismounted and stood over him. The man was awfully still, Crowley's anger died slightly as a worried thought, that he might have killed the man, crept in. That hadn't been his intention. He relaxed a little as the man took in a gasping breath and then started breathing normally again. Not dead. He would be unconscious for quite a while though, Crowley was certain._

 _He turned his attention towards the man's horse and the saddlebags, his thoughts on the dispatches the man was carrying. If they were indeed from Morgarath, then Crowley really wanted to know what they contained. There were three scrolls. Crowley carefully slipped his knife under the yellow wax seal affixed to each, keeping each of the plugs whole, and then carefully unrolling the parchments to read._

 _The first one contained a list of 12 Rangers that were to be dismissed from the Corps, their authority as Ranger's revoked. He sucked in his breath slightly as he read: his own name was at the top of that list. The second scroll contained an appointment for Baron Naylor to act as Grand Marshal of the upcoming tournament at Gorlan. But it was the last message that was the most intriguing and revealing. It was a letter to Sir Eammon of Wildriver. It detailed how Morgarath had been stirring up unrest against Prince Duncan by using a man name Tiller to impersonate him. It said that the real Prince was a prisoner at Castle Wildriver and that Morgarath was planning to announce himself a King Oswald's heir at the tournament—and that the prince was to be kept alive until then so that he could be used as leverage should the king refuse Morgarath._

 _Crowley found his mind reeling slightly as he processed all of this. Just moments before, he'd been wondering what he was going to do about the state of the kingdom, the state of the failing Ranger Corps. Now he thought he had the beginnings of an idea, a plan to fight back. The tournament was seven weeks away. He had seven weeks to get Prince Duncan out of Castle Wildriver and have him confront Morgarath at the tournament._

 _It was too much for him to do alone, and he knew it. He would need help if he was to pull this off. And the first dispatch had given him a very good idea of where to find it. Resolved, he moved to try and re-seal the parchments as best he could by re-heating the bottom of the wax seals and re-sticking them back to the scrolls. He knew it would be best, for what he was planning, if nobody knew that the letters had already been read._

 _As he put them back in the messenger's saddlebags and prepared a story to tell the man when he woke up, he remembered something that his late mentor Pritchard used to say about training to be a Ranger:_ "we don't do it for the glory, we don't do it for ourselves, we do it for when the kingdom has need of these skills. " _If ever the kingdom needed the skills of the Rangers, it was now._

 **~x~X~x~**

 _Present Day_

 **~x~X~x~**

Crowley got up from the chair he occupied and headed towards the window of his office of the northern castle that was serving as the equivalent of Castle Araluen in the King's Lands. Outside, the spring air was crisp and fresh. Crowley took it all in and tried to work himself up into a smile. It was an expression that had once been thoughtlessly easy to make, but had grown increasingly harder as the years passed and the war dragged on.

Crowley was a Ranger, appointed by the King to be the commandant of a failing Corps in a failing kingdom. All those years ago he'd tried his best to rally and reform the Corps. At one time, during the start of the war, the numbers had reached into the twenties. But they had lost many Rangers during the Battle of Hackham Heath, almost half their numbers, ensuring the King's safety and securing the half of the kingdom that remained Duncan's.

Now, fifteen years later, their number was back up to twenty again, but even that wasn't near enough for the 28 fiefs that belong to the King—especially not with the war on. He shook his head free of those dark thoughts, they weren't going to help his situation. He heard a knock at his door and called for whomever it was to enter.

An elegant woman in the white gown of a Courier stepped inside in answer to his call.

"Lady Pauline," Crowley greeted, a genuinely pleased smile touching his scarred face.

"Crowley," She smiled at him in return.

"And, Lady Alyss," Crowley inclined his head to the young girl standing behind Pauline.

She'd been the elegant Courier's apprentice for about a year now. Apparently, she'd been a ward of Arald's once, sent to Baron Tyler when Redmont fell. Pauline had told him that, about a year previous, when she had gone to deliver messages to Tyler with Arald, Alyss had approached her to ask about becoming a Courier. Long story short, she'd become Lady Pauline's apprentice and was already becoming one of the brightest in the Diplomatic Service.

The girl nodded now, her formally solemn features lighting up with a smile, "Ranger Crowley," she greeted, respectfully.

"Call me Crowley," he said pleasantly and she nodded.

"Alright then… Crowley," she tried it out.

Crowley couldn't help but smile again, her smile was infectious. Then he turned back to Pauline. "I take it this isn't a social call?"

She shook her head wanly. "Is there even such a thing anymore in these times?" she asked rhetorically.

Crowley allowed himself a wry chuckle. "That's true enough."

She nodded before coming to the point. "King Duncan has called a meeting to discuss the recent developments."

It was his turn to nod understanding as he fell in step beside her as they headed out to meet the King.

"Has there been any further news about the hired Scandians or Morgarath's plans?" he asked curiously as they walked.

She shook her head. "We were lucky to get what we did. It's hard to get agents into Morgarath's lands—into positions or places where they might glean valuable information."

He nodded knowingly.

"I'm afraid that the news I have is closer to home. I've recently gotten reports from my people informing me that the Moondarker problems have been getting worse on the east coast, and the Outsider cult has been taking greater hold in the west.

Crowley frowned slightly, "That's pretty much what my Rangers have been saying. And add to that the problem of bandits and slaver and Scandian raids. Honestly, all we need is for the Scotti to invade from the north and we'd have all the points of the compass covered when it comes to problems. I know I should probably send some Rangers out to deal with it all, but it's hard: I have so few and we are already spread thin."

It was Pauline's turn to frown at that, knowing that he was right. Every day things seemed to grow more bleak. Both of them turned, however, when young Alyss cleared her throat.

"Do you think that if Rangers and Couriers worked together more jointly we might be able to help the problem of not having enough numbers?"

Lady Pauline nodded at the suggestion and Crowley smiled.

"If the situation with the Moondarkers and Outsiders, gets any worse, I think that's a suggestion that merits further thought," he said.

Joint operations between Rangers and Couriers weren't unheard of after all. Crowley frowned slightly, deep in thought, as they continued on. Whatever they did, he was certain that they needed some new strategies, especially with the threat of Morgarath growing bigger every day.

 **~x~X~x~**

A few days after he had left the village, Horace had found himself near, or across—he wasn't entirely sure which—the border between the King's land and Morgarath's land. He had figured that out around noon that day when he had seen a band of wargals and men wearing the lightning bolt standard of the traitor Lord, traveling parallel and slightly southwest of his position.

It had been the first time in his life that Horace had ever seen the bestial creatures that made up the main part of Morgarath's army, and they were terrifying to behold. Part of him had always thought that the stories he had heard about them were exaggerations—but now that he'd seen them for himself, he realized that they obviously were not.

The moment he had seen them, he'd dropped quickly behind a nearby bush to keep them from seeing him. Fear had held him frozen as they passed by. He'd watched numbly, both mesmerized and horrified by the creatures' hideous visages. They hadn't been very close to his position, but he'd been able to make out their guttural chant as they marched. It was toneless and wordless and it had sent shivers down his spine.

It was in that moment that he'd realized that he'd traveled way too far south. He'd made a horrible mistake coming this far. He'd just decided to head back the way he'd come when something had made him pause. That something was the sudden thought of the provisions that the enemy band carried with them. Horace had run entirely out of food a while ago and he hadn't eaten anything at all for two days. The roll he'd gotten in the village was nothing but a fading memory now.

He couldn't bring himself to rob from villagers and other travelers, but the semi-human beasts of Morgarath's army and the men that led it weren't innocent villagers. Besides that, he'd known that the only villages where he could find something to eat were days away from his current position. If he was to survive and make it back north he needed food, he needed supplies.

It was an insanely stupid idea and he'd known it, but he hadn't been able to push it from his mind. After the men and wargals had passed him by, he'd felt himself rising from his hiding spot and then starting to travel in the direction they had taken, his utter desperation overriding his caution. He'd been able to follow them easily, without coming into their sights, by following the sound of their chant as they marched.

It was that which had led him to where he was now, standing near the top of a dell in the dark shadows of night, looking at the firelight of the enemy camp below.

Stealing from bandits and murderers wasn't really stealing, he told himself fiercely. This party of Morgarath's men and wargals had likely killed and stolen from people to get what they had. It would only be fair if he were to take it back.

His stomach ached again and it was physically starting to hurt. For a moment, he felt a little flushed and lightheaded. He leaned against the tree he sheltered behind for support as he waited the uncomfortable feeling out.

He needed food and he needed it badly. When the moment finally passed, he shook himself and reached for his sword. He could smell the roasting haunch of venison that was in the very center of the camp. But he knew that there would be no way for him to get any of that. His stomach sent another wave of pain through him and his mouth watered despite himself. It just smelled so good. Then he shook his head. It wasn't possible. He'd learned enough in tactics and history class to understand that he wouldn't even have a chance.

But he'd noticed something earlier. This band's bags and stores of provisions had been carelessly placed nearer the edge of the camp. He could see no more than five or six men stationed near there. He could not sneak or fight through an entire camp of men, it was true. But he bet that he could sneak past five or six... hopefully. He took a breath, his eyes seeking the best path to the bags of stores.

His hand clutched tight at the hilt of his sword and he felt his palms already beginning to sweat with nerves. If he wasn't careful, he could very well die here tonight. But he would die anyway in a week or two if he didn't get food, he argued with himself. Best to try it now—while he still had the strength. He nodded to himself and chose his path, straightening his shoulders as he began to creep down it.

"I wouldn't go that way if I were you," a quiet but, at the same time, almost cheerful voice spoke out of the darkness.

Horace started in fear and only just managed to stop himself from yelping, or worse, in shock. As it was, he drew his sword reflexively, even as he turned toward where the sound had come from.

There was a tall slim figure leaning casually against the trunk of a tree not more than two meters from him. It was a man, he saw, and he might have taken him for a simple forester had he not noticed the dull-studded leather armor that he wore. He also carried a veritable array of weapons. Horace could make out a longbow, a quiver of arrows, a sword, and, if he was not mistaken, a knife. But the man had made no attempt to draw any of them.

In the dark, all Horace could see of his face was a wide easy smile. The rest of his face lay in shadow because of his hooded surcoat. The man, for his part, seemed totally unconcerned by Horace's sword as he leaned slightly forwards and continued speaking, his tone as light and amiable as if they were discussing pleasantries over supper.

"Though their camp looks relatively slapdash, they're not quite as unprepared as they seem." He stood fully then and pointed down in the direction Horace had chosen for himself to take. "See, they have picket guards stationed in the trees around their camp."

Though still startled and more than wary, Horace couldn't help but follow the line of man's pointing finger. It was then that he saw something move in the trees and then a small orange flash of light as the firelight reflected off the armor of a picket guard that he had missed. His eyes widened. He swallowed hard as he realized he would have blundered straight into that guard. He looked back towards the strange cowled man who had pretty much just saved his life.

"There are six of them total," the man went on, "and, judging by the way you move, they probably would have heard you before you even got near the camp. That is, if you didn't flat out run into one of them on the way down."

Though the words were almost chiding, the tone was calm and still almost cheerful, not condemning. It was the tone that soothed Horace's initial flash of anger at the near insult—that and the realization that the man was probably right. He had trod on more than a few twigs this night and this man had gotten within mere meters of him without him hearing the slightest sound. Horace found himself lowering his sword at that revelation. If the man had wanted to kill him, he probably could have already done so and Horace was fairly certain that he wouldn't have even known what had hit him. But instead, this man had just stopped him from walking into a potential death trap.

"No," the man shook his head as he continued, his smile dimming slightly, "if we want to steal some supper for ourselves, we are going to need a different plan."

By now Horace's head was practically spinning with the total craziness of this situation, but he still managed to pick up on the stranger's use of a specific pronoun.

"We?" he managed to gasp out, his voice rising in pitch. The hooded man made a gesture for him to hush.

"They're not deaf down there, you know," he said good-naturedly.

Horace nodded and spoke again, softer this time, though his voice still cracked a little.

"We?" he repeated.

"Naturally," the cowled man said, matter of fact. "It's far easier for two people to create a diversion than one. Most of Morgarath's men in small bands like these don't have a lot up top," he said, lightly tapping the side of his head with a forefinger. "Two people will definitely be enough for our purposes," he nodded to himself. "And the terrain here is perfect for it…"

"Diversion?" Horace squeaked; this was all moving a little too fast for him.

The man's mouth grew serious at this interjection and so did his tone.

"Don't worry about that. I'll take care of the diversion. You just make sure that you're in place to steal our dinner while they're distracted. Got it? If you don't think that you can do it, just say so and we'll think of something else."

Horace nodded numbly. "I can do it," he murmured and his strange partner regarded him quietly for a moment before nodding.

"I think you could at that. Name's Gilan, by the way," he added, holding out his hand, the smile returning fully to his face.

"Horace," Horace breathed, clasping on with him.

"Pleased to meet you, Horace." Then his mouth grew serious again. "When I make my move there will probably be a lot of shouting and confusion. Can a trust you to keep your head and wait until most of them are chasing me into the woods before moving in?"

His whole attention was fixed on Horace now and Horace nodded.

"Just get in, grab what you need and get out. Don't take any unnecessary risks and try not to get pinned down into any engagements. This is dangerous, so be alert and be careful."

Horace nodded again. It made good sense. Though he couldn't see it, he could feel the man's gaze on him until he was sure that he understood.

"One thing," Horace stammered, his voice becoming steadier as he spoke on, "you said that they'll be chasing after you."

The man nodded agreement.

"Then how will I find you after… you know, so we can split it?"

The man smiled again. "I'll find you," he said, as he began to move away.

Well, that was more than a little disconcerting, Horace thought. Then started in surprise as the man seemed to vanish before his eyes. An involuntary shudder ran down his spine. But he began to move forwards none the less. He went more carefully this time, aware of the pickets that—he searched for the man's name then found it: Gilan—that Gilan had pointed out to him.

He moved slowly and cautiously, taking advantage of the heavy shadows all around as he drew nearer to the enemy camp. Once he judged that he was as close as he dared to the picket line of guards, he stopped behind a shrub bush and waited, his eyes fixed on the camp.

For a long while, there was nothing. Then he nearly blinked in surprise as Gilan seemed to appear inside the enemy camp, deep enough to cause alarm, but not so deep as to trap himself, Horace noted. Morgarath's men seemed totally oblivious to his presence until he spoke.

"What's for dinner? I'm starving!"

The men started in utter surprise as they became suddenly aware of the brazen interloper in their camp. Then all chaos broke loose as Gilan sent the leader to the ground with a precise hit from a spear he had taken from one of the men. He then turned and darted away into the deep night at top speed.

"After him!" the angry roar of the second in command sounded—a little belatedly. Startled men scurried for weapons and hastened to obey the cries. Even the pickets on guard moved to do likewise. In that moment, Horace couldn't decide whether to be impressed by this Gilan's courage or appalled at his foolhardiness.

Soon there were only two men left in the encampment. Horace ghosted to the supplies, aware of the sounds of men and wargals tramping and crashing through the forest. Then he heard faint deep throated thrumming sound and several cries of pain and alarm. Horace tried to tune it mostly out, so it wouldn't distract him as he moved in. The two enemies that were left were positioned fairly far apart from each other and facing different directions. Horace crept towards the one near the supplies and knocked him senseless with a heavy blow.

Now that the moment of action was upon him, he found that much of his earlier nervousness had gone...most, but not all. He quickly stooped to gather several bags of the provisions, as much as he could carry. He slung them over his shoulder and then hurried back into the shadows. He wished then that he had a better way of carrying all the supplies because, as it was, he'd be unable to use his left arm at all if it came to a fight.

Once he was out of sight of the camp, and its large fire, he ran, heedless of the branches that grabbed at him—always heading into the opposite direction to the sounds of fighting. He kept going even when they were no longer audible. He had heard once that, without light, men tended to run in circles. In order to keep that from happening to him, he made sure to head in the direction of the full moon that lit the night around him with a silvery glow.

His breath started to come in ragged puffs, something that he knew probably wouldn't have happened yet if he'd been in good condition. The sacks began slipping so he adjusted his hold, clutching them to his chest. Finally, when he felt that he could run no longer, he slowed to a walk, his eyes seeking in the moonlight for a sheltered place to secure himself.

When he found one, he waited there for a long while. Gradually, his breath came back to him and his heartbeat returned to its normal pace. As the moon dipped ever lower in the sky, and minutes turned to hours, Horace began to believe that Gilan wouldn't be coming to meet him. Either he couldn't find him or, worse, Morgarath's men had caught and killed him.

To his slight surprise, he found himself hoping that the latter wasn't the case. This Gilan had intrigued him and there was something about him that he found himself almost liking. He stared into the darkness around him once more and then looked down, frowning. What if he hadn't been killed but rather injured or captured? Horace's brows furrowed at the thought. He found he didn't at all like the idea of anyone being held or hurt by Morgarath's men. He'd just made up his mind that he'd go back and try to help if Gilan were hurt, or find a way to free him if he were captured when he looked up and nearly jumped out of his skin.

Gilan was directly before him, crouching on a nearby log with that by now familiar grin visible under the shadow of his hood, the white of his teeth glinting slightly in the moonlight.

"Hello, Horace. I trust you managed to find some supper?"

* * *

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading. As usual, feedback is really appreciated! Let me know what you think. I hope you all have really blessed weeks until next time! I know that I said Evanlyn was going to be in this chapter, but I had to do a little rearranging, and it didn't fit. But she'll definitely be coming into things a little later, promise.


	6. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Here the next chapter! I'm sorry for the delay; school has only just started and it's already kicking my backside in regards to workload. Updates are probably going to be a little slower from now on in, unless I get a week where I get less coursework *crosses fingers*. But I'll try my best to get out chapters in as timely a manner as I can. Thanks to everyone who read, followed, reviewed, and favorited, I really appreciate the support!

 **TrustTheCloak:** I'd go with Cropper too—he's a wise horse XD Now that you mention it, it is pretty similar to Zuko X) As for Gilan, I promise that I will eventually answer all those questions. Thanks so much for the review!

 **jaymzNshed:** I'm really glad to hear that you liked them X) Things are definitely starting to look up for Horace. Thanks so much for the feedback and the support, I really appreciate it!

 **WisperRanger26:** No need to be civilized where Gilan is concerned XD Thanks so much for the review and for the support! It totally made my day :)

 **anonym:** awww :3 thanks so much for that. That was super nice of you to say. Thanks for the support. I promise I will answer all those questions. And, yes, *slight spoiler* XD Gilan will eventually run into his father again, so you'll get to see that.

 **Anon:** Thank you :3 that totally made my day to hear, or rather, read. I was really worried about getting the flow right in that section. Thanks so much for the compliment.

 **Guest:** Thanks for the review! I hope I updated fast enough for you. XD

* * *

 **Chapter 5**

 **~x~X~x~**

 _A few years before Ruins of Gorlan_

 **~x~X~x~**

 _The man had hired him to help him find his brother. And, although Halt had accepted quite a few employment opportunities like this before, this one was a little different in the regards that the man already knew where his brother would be… Halt already regretted agreeing to help him, regretted coming to this battlefield._

 _All around him was the ugly print of unchecked violence. The battle had taken place about four days previously, time enough for the first stages of rot to set in. The grizzly scene before him was only matched in its ferocity by the sickly smell of death. Soldiers lay with horses and knights alike. Halt had also made out the forms of several farm animals, along with those of people who were obviously not soldiers: peasant folk, women, children, and men lying near the burned husks of what had once been a village. The sight made him feel sick. Mindless battles for power and land between Gallic lords like this were common. Yet, to Halt, it all seemed so worthless, so empty, an utter waste._

 _The grizzly scene before him was easy enough to read. It had been a brutal battle. The invading army had come from the east and engaged the army of the former lord of this place. However, the invaders had obviously not stopped when they'd defeated their opponents, they had continued on to the village—to plunder it. Halt's eyes roved coldly over the raven emblem on the surcoat of one of the dead invaders. He clenched his teeth and might have sucked in a sharp breath had the air not been so foul. He was startled from his thoughts however, as the man he had been hired to help, Lafayette, spoke._

 _"Do you see my brother?" he asked, his tone still caring a hint of hope with it._

 _Halt closed his eyes for a moment before turning to face the man._

 _"I told you before not to get your hopes up," he said flatly, his expression blank. "It's been four days, and it's unlikely that your brother has survived this long."_

 _He didn't say what had become plainly obvious to him already: that they hadn't yet come across a single living person on this entire field—and they had made it nearly all the way through the slew of wreckage and death._

 _"I know this," Lafayette said as he picked his way carefully through to stand by Halt, "but I have to know for certain—I won't rest until I know…" He gestured towards the remains of one of the dilapidated village houses. "We have not tried over there!" And so saying, he made his way in that direction, leaving Halt to scramble after._

 _Halt had seen the determined look in the man's eye and decided not to argue. Lafayette had been away, helping a family in the next village over when the battle had taken place. It had taken him a day to get the news, and another day to learn that his brother, a soldier in former lord of the land's army, hadn't made it back. Then it had taken him another two days to travel back and to hire Halt to help him—not for tracking, but for protection. Lafayette was a craftsman by trade, not a soldier like his brother had been, and battlefields, even finished ones, were dangerous places to be. All manner of scavengers made their way to them: vultures, crows, packs of wild dogs and wolves. And, this close to the border of Teutlandt_ — _and the mountain range that stretched across the easternmost edge of both Teutlandt and Scandia_ — _there were certain to be bears too. That was not to mention the human scavengers: thieves and desperate men searching the corpses of the fallen for items of value._

 _With those thoughts in mind, Halt moved a little quicker, trying to catch the man's shoulder before he rounded the corner of one of the dilapidated homes; he thought he had heard something out of place. Lafayette had moved too quickly however and had rounded the bend before Halt had been able to catch him._

 _"Wait!" he started to call, but it was too late. He heard Lafayette scream._

 _Halt raced around the corner of the building with his bow at the ready, just in time to see the three wild dogs turn their bright eyes upon Lafayette and move forward to spring. Lafayette tried to back away, but slipped on a discarded sword and fell backward. Halt stepped clear of the building, an arrow already notched to his string._

 _He aimed, shot, nocked, drew back, aimed and shot again. His second arrow was in the air before the first had struck the lead dog. The last dog swerved to the side as Halt shot, causing his third arrow to miss its target. All the while, it had been charging forwards, closing the distance in a few bounds. Halt had been moving forwards also, so that he stood in front of where Lafayette had fallen. Knowing that his bow was of little use in such close quarters, he threw it aside and drew his saxe just as the maddened beast leaped at him._

 _He could see its sharp fangs set in a powerful jaw that was open in a snarl—fangs that could easily tear open his throat. Halt pivoted ever so slightly at the last second, simultaneously bringing his saxe down upon the creature. It fell to join the other two._

 _Halt stood tensed and ready, listening and looking to make sure there had been only the three. He relaxed when he saw that there had been. He cleaned his saxe before slipping it back into his sheath and retrieved his bow. He then turned, annoyed, to Lafayette. His mouth was already open to make a scathing comment about Lafayette having an interesting idea as to the meaning of 'stay close to me'—something they had discussed earlier several times already. But he stopped short when he saw the way that Lafayette was staring at the sword that he had slipped on._

 _"This was my brother's," he said, eyes wide as he carefully picked up the weapon._

 _"Are you certain?" Halt moved to stand beside where he sat._

 _When the man nodded, Halt gestured for him to step back so that he could get a good look at the surrounding ground. Though the earth had been trampled by the scuffle with the dogs, Halt's keen eyes soon caught something: a blood trail heading away from the battlefield and towards the woods. Halt didn't know if it belonged to Lafayette's brother, but now that he'd found it, he intended to follow it. He signaled for Lafayette to stay close to him as he began tracking. As they moved further into the woods the trail became clearer and Halt was able to follow more easily, not only by the dried blood, but also by breaks in branches, and disturbed earth and plants. He frowned slightly as he realized that it was not just a single person who had made this trail, but rather two._

 _Before he could comment on this, he suddenly became aware of a sound—one that seemed grossly out of place considering the circumstances: quiet conversation and laughter. Halt nocked another arrow on his bowstring as he moved forward into the little clearing where the sound had come from._

 _Two men sat near a dead fire, their backs against a wide tree trunk. Both were soldiers and both were injured. However, it was obvious that the two of them were not part of the same company, not even part of the same army: one wore a blue surcoat with a red lion emblem on the front; the other wore the emblem of a black raven. Both men startled as they caught sight of Halt, but the surprise soon ebbed away as Lafayette broke cover at a run, a huge smile on his face, tears of joy sparkling in his eyes._

 _"Brother! You're alive!"_

 _He ran past Halt and embraced the man with the lion emblem on his surcoat. All Halt could do was look at the unfolding scene with no small amount of surprise—he had expected to find the man's brother dead. And he certainly hadn't expected to find him with one of the enemy soldiers. Before he could try and puzzle his way through this unexpected development, the two brothers broke apart their joyful embrace and Lafayette asked the questions that had been weighing on Halt's mind._

 _"How did you survive the battle? And why are you with the enemy?" he asked, staring with no small amount of distrust at the other man._

 _But his brother made a pacifying gesture. "It's alright! He's not the enemy. He saved my life. I was badly wounded and he got me off the battlefield and away from the combat. I probably would have died without his help."_

 _"And why would you do that?" Halt asked skeptically, replacing his arrow in his quiver and stepping forwards. He was happy that Lafayette's brother was alive, that they had found him… but couldn't say that he was filled with joy to see one of the 'Raven Lord's' men. Not after what he'd seen in the village._

 _The soldier with the raven insignia closed his eyes for a moment, but then answered carefully, "Because I was there when my lord D_ _eparnieux_ _destroyed that village, ordered us to destroy it and everyone in it—women and children… I couldn't do it. I have been with him from the start, but Lord Deparnieux has been behaving less and less like a knight and more like a warlord the more he conquers for himself. I have overlooked it before…have been overlooking it, to my shame. But I could not overlook this…. I saw no choice but to desert. I wanted to try and help the villagers." He shook his head sadly, "I was too late to save them, but I could save him," he gestured towards Lafayette's brother._

 _"What do you intend to do now then?" Halt asked, searching the man's eyes. They both knew that he would never again be welcome in any lands ruled by the lord he had deserted. And Halt had only been able to detect sincerity in the man's words and eyes. The man hesitated, but before he could voice an answer, Lafayette spoke up._

 _"If what you said was true," he began, looking at the deserter, "then I owe you more than words can say. If it is alright with my brother, you can come with us wherever we end up going, as soon as both of you are well enough to travel. With this D_ _eparnieux_ _ruling, my brother will have no place here either—and neither will I."_

 _The way he said it made an odd sensation spark in Halt's chest. These two brothers cared so much for each other that there was no question as to whether or not one of them would be willing to completely uproot their lives for the other, no question that they'd stay together. Not for the first time, he found himself wondering what it would be like to have a bond like that, to have family like that—or even friends, he thought looking back to the deserter. Then he shrugged internally; there was no point in him wishing for something he couldn't have. And, if there was no point in something, the best idea was not to do it. After all, he'd lived this long without it… But he couldn't seem to completely get rid of the feeling that he was missing something, that he'd lost something important. He shook himself again and looked back to Lafayette as the man spoke._

 _"Thank you for your help in finding my brother… and for saving me from those dogs," he said, rising to his feet to hand him the money he had promised. "What will you do now?"_

 _"Move on," Halt said as he took the coins. "This Deparnieux sounds like just the sort of person I'd want to avoid." In fact, Halt had already decided that he would be more than happy to live out his days without ever coming across this Deparnieux or his men._

 **~x~X~x~**

 _Present Day_

 **~x~X~x~**

He remembered… he remembered everything.

Halt was heading for the coast, his steps purposeful for the first time since he had left his home in Hibernia. He remembered what had happened—even though he still did not quite understand _how_ it had happened. He was a Ranger. He remembered Araluen and the life he had built there. He remembered the Ranger Corps… and he remembered all the people he had left behind, Will, Pauline, Crowley, Gilan, Baron Arlad, and King Duncan. He even remembered Pritchard, his mentor… a man who he had never even met in this time. He knew of, and remembered, a life that had never existed here—had two different timelines traveling side by side in his head…. And he had a vague idea what had caused this—or rather whom, he thought bitterly

He remembered Morgarath and that stone that he had used—that was, in fact, the last thing he remembered from that other time. At first, when his memories had started returning he had wondered if he was going crazy; but the memories had been too clear, too detailed, too personal to be some maddened fantasy. The anger he had felt, from the moment that he had woken up near the woman's trinket stand, had not abated once on his fast-paced journey to the coast. Halt had spent the entirety of his life, since he'd left Hibernia, living out what amounted to a fairly purposeless existence in Gallica. And all the while Morgarath had been free to do whatever he pleased in Araluen.

Everyone he had ever cared about had been left to fend for themselves without him. He had no idea what had happened to them all, what could have happened to them, or to Araluen. All he had heard to that effect in Galica were vague rumors about an ongoing civil war and a divided kingdom.

He would never forgive Morgarath, or himself, if something had happened to any of the people he cared about. He closed his eyes briefly; he could see all their faces in his mind, the memories of the time they had spent together—memories and opportunities that had been taken away from them in this time. Halt gritted his teeth as he thought of Morgarath and everything he had done.

All he knew for certain was that he needed to get back, needed to get passage on a ship… and, most of all, he needed to know that he was not already too late for the kingdom, for the Ranger Corps, for his friends… for his family. And all he could do was hope that they were all somehow still there, still alive, still fighting...

Ahead of him, through some breaks in the trees, he could just see the coast and the tumble of houses that made up the port village that was his destination. His eyes narrowed slightly in determination—and then swiveled suddenly to the side as he caught sight of a motion in the trees half a kilometer away to his left. He had been so absorbed in his thoughts that he had not noticed that he'd not been alone in these woods until now.

He saw what looked like a young blond-haired boy running pell-mell in the opposite direction Halt was taking. Even from this distance, Halt could tell by his body language that he was in distress. Every so often he would glance behind him and, every time he did, he tried desperately to coax more speed from his limbs. It didn't take long for Halt to see what the young boy was running from, see why he was so terrified. A mounted knight burst through the trees behind the boy, galloping hard to overtake him. As Halt watched, the knight drew up alongside the boy, reached low and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, slinging him roughly over his saddlebow. The boy shouted in terror, struggling fiercely against the knight who had caught him. But all his kicking and flailing was to no avail.

With one last longing glance at the coast, Halt sighed and turned to change direction, heading towards the mounted knight and struggling boy. The knight wheeled his horse slightly, making it so that he and Halt were almost front-on to each other. It was then that Halt saw something that made him instantly reach for an arrow and nock it to his bowstring. The knight was wearing a surcoat with the emblem of a familiar raven emblazoned on the front. Memories of the grizzly battlefield and the destroyed village he had seen all those years ago came blazing to the forefront of his mind. He glanced once more at the coast and whispered a silent apology as he moved to intercept the knight. He couldn't very well leave the boy to suffer in their hands—it wasn't the Ranger way.

 **~x~X~x~**

Horace and Gilan sat opposite each other, munching on some of the pilfered dry provisions. Gilan had said it wouldn't be wise to light a fire. He was fairly sure that Morgarath's men wouldn't try to follow them—and wouldn't have much luck if they did. But he'd said it was better to be safe than sorry. Horace was more than willing to trust his judgment in that area.

Horace studied the man now. He had pushed his hood back from his face so it was now visible in what was left of the moonlight. He had a nice face and, Horace was surprised to find out, a young face. He didn't look like he could be all that much older than twenty or so. It was also fair to say that Horace was a little overawed by him, especially when considering his apparent youth. He was startled slightly from his thoughts as Gilan spoke.

"Hungry?" he asked mildly.

Horace nodded over a large mouthful of food. He swallowed and then reached for some more.

"I've hardly eaten anything in a week." He took another bite.

Gilan nodded, his expression thoughtful.

"And just where are you headed?"

Horace's face fell. "I… I'm not sure," he said finally, quietly. "I don't really have anywhere to go, and have no idea where I should head."

"No home or family?"

Horace shook his head. "I suppose I'm just wandering."

"Nothing wrong with that," Gilan said gently. "Home can be more than a set place with four walls."

Horace looked up at that. "You don't have a home either?"

Gilan grinned and then gestured almost grandly at the forest that surrounded them. "You're sitting in it. The King's land is home enough for me. And wherever I make camp is kitchen and bed enough for me also." His smile turned slightly viper-like as he added, "And Morgarath's lands make an excellent pantry."

Horace smiled at that. "I wish I had your attitude. It's all pretty new to me, and I can't say that I've enjoyed myself so far."

He took another bite of food, studying Gilan for a moment, and then, deciding that he was a person who might know such things, gathered his courage and asked.

"I was thinking of maybe finding work as a garrison soldier in another fief… do you think that they'd take me?"

Gilan studied him thoughtfully, seeming to assess him before replying.

"The fiefs are always looking for good soldiers with the war on…. You have the combat training of a first-year Battleschool apprentice, and truthfully, that's sometimes more, or about equal to, the lowest garrison troop member. You're young, but big for your age, so I'd doubt they'd refuse you."

Horace's mouth, however, had dropped open slightly in surprise.

"How did you know that I am, or was, a first-year Battleschool apprentice?"

Gilan shrugged and pointed to his belt. "It's obvious that you've had some combat training, and that's a standard issue drill sword that you've sharpened yourself. If you were a second-year apprentice; you already would have been given your own cavalry sword."

Horace looked with new respect at Gilan and a sudden uncomfortable thought popped into his head.

"Do you think they'd take me even though…" he flushed, shame all too evident in his voice, "even though I…" he trailed.

"Even though you were dropped from Battleschool?" Gilan finished for him, not unkindly.

Horace's shoulders slumped and he nodded.

"At times like these, I seriously doubt it. As I said, we're in the middle of a war; the kingdom needs fighting men. Also, if you enlist in another fief, they'd hardly know."

"Wouldn't it be dishonorable not to tell them?"

Gilan shrugged again, leaning back casually against the log they sat near, "If they didn't ask, I see no reason to tell them. I certainly wouldn't."

Horace frowned a little at that. He wasn't quite sure that he approved of Gilan's lenient stance when it came to honesty. But he put that aside, his curiosity outweighing his sense of morals for the moment.

"How could you tell that I was dropped, instead of choosing to leave on my own?"

Gilan pointed to the near-empty simple drawstring linen pouch at Horace's side.

"That is the standard pouch of coins that they give when an apprentice is dishonorably discharged and told not to return to the castle or surrounding villages. Though it isn't an often occurrence, it does happen. They usually give such a cadet two weeks of supplies and some money. Logically, I could assume that that was what happened to you. But, in your case, it's been about three weeks since the traditional last day for cadets to be dropped before they start their next year. You said that you've been out of food for a week. You also said that you have no family, so they probably gave you the supplies and money since you had no home to go to and nothing to your name," Gilan said, nonchalant, as if that explained everything.

Then he added, "Also, you don't have the character of one who's been dishonorably discharged. You're too disciplined. There are far easier targets to rob than Morgarath's men, you know."

Horace nodded at that, satisfied. It all sounded so simple when Gilan explained it.

"How do you know so much about Battleschool?" Horace asked then.

There was a slight pause before Gilan answered, "My father was a knight; I suppose I picked it up from him."

That surprised Horace. He'd expected Gilan's father to be a yeoman or a forester based on his dress and choice of weapons. Horace frowned as another thought came to him. If Gilan's father was a knight, then why wasn't he? He was obviously a decent fighter—how else could he have gotten away from Morgarath's men earlier? But before he could broach the topic further, Gilan spoke again.

"Well, I'm for sleep. Why don't you take first watch and I'll take second? We're on war footing after all."

And, so saying, he made himself comfortable in the hollow between two roots and closed his eyes. He was soon breathing deeply and evenly.

Horace shrugged mentally and resigned himself to the first watch. At the moment, he had too much to think about, and too much to decide, to want to sleep. He estimated that, since the night was already about half over, each watch would be about three hours until morning.

He spent those hours in thought—always keeping one ear out for trouble. When he deemed his time was up, he walked over towards Gilan, thinking to wake him. But he didn't get closer than two meters before Gilan's eyes snapped open and he rose to his feet. He nodded once at Horace as they switched places. Horace returned the gesture tiredly and lay down. He grunted softly as he made himself as comfortable as he could, grateful that the spot had already been warmed for him.

Even as he lay there, he promised that he wouldn't sleep. He was still a little wary of this Gilan. Though logic told him that the man probably wasn't dangerous—at least, not to him—and didn't bear him any ill will, his year of bullying had made him overcautious and suspicious. Still, he thought, there would be no harm in him just resting his tired eyes for a while… He fell asleep. It was a deep sleep. All the hunger fatigue of the past two weeks had worn him down severely; more than he had realized.

He woke to find the sun already up and filtering through the forest canopy at the low angle of morning. He sat up in shock, feeling a rather guilty start.

"Morning," a voice said amiably.

Horace turned to see Gilan crouched near the sack of provisions they'd… _liberated_ the night before. He had the contents laid out over the dark earth in fairly orderly piles.

"I've been sorting the provisions. It should spit easily enough between the two of us."

Horace felt a second guilty start as Gilan said it. He been so suspicious of this man, and yet he could have run off with all the supplies whilst Horace had foolishly fallen asleep. But he had not. And, as Horace thought about it, Gilan had been one of the only people in a long while to treat him with any sort of regard or kindness, not to mention the fact that he had probably saved his life.

"So, have you figured out yet where you'll go?" Gilan asked, glancing up from his sorting.

Horace stretched and then nodded.

"I thought a lot about it last night, and I've decided to try and join a garrison… maybe in Aspienne fief?"

"Aspienne fief?" Gilan asked. "That's in the direction that I'm heading."

Horace perked up a little at that.

"Umm, do you think that… well," he said, feeling a little awkward, "that I might travel with you until we reach Aspienne Castle? It's just that… I'm not too sure of the way."

"Slaking in your geography lessons, were you?" Gilan asked, smiling to let the boy know he was teasing. Horace said nothing, just looked down while he waited for an answer.

"I was actually hoping that you'd ask," Gilan said, his smile growing wider. "It'll save me time dividing all this evenly." He gestured to the neatly spilled contents of their provisions. More seriously, he held out his hand to the young warrior. "It would be my pleasure to travel with you. It's been a long time since I've had any company other than wargals."

Horace smiled in return and clasped Gilan's offered hand firmly. He then made a move to gather his kit. He turned around again when he heard Gilan utter a low sound of pleasure. He was drawing something forth from the now nearly empty sack.

"What is it?" Horace asked.

"We've just had a stroke of luck," Gilan said, pulling a small bundle out of the sack and passing it to Horace.

"What is it?" Horace asked again.

"Coffee," Gilan said, almost reverently.

A couple of hours later found them on the road keeping up a fairly brisk pace. Gilan was obviously not the type to ever let grass grow underfoot, Horace thought wryly as he tried to keep pace.

"So why are you heading to Aspienne fief?" Horace asked, interrupting the silence that had grown between them.

They had been traveling fairly steadily since midmorning; the only time they had paused had been for the noon meal—and for a short time while Gilan retrieved his shaggy little horse from a spot in the woods where he had secured her the day before.

They were walking at a fairly steady pace, side by side, Gilan's horse following obediently behind them. Horace had been a little surprised at first to see that Gilan's horse didn't need to be guided by lead reins in order to do so. He looked up at the man now as he answered Horace's question.

"I've got a job in one of the smaller villages. Apparently, there is a gang of thieves bullying the villagers into giving them money and goods in exchange for 'protecting' their village. The Baron of Aspienne is too busy to deal with such a small matter. It's nothing more than a minor nuisance to him and, considering the fact that he's constantly needed to maintain the border, you can easily see why. It's been going on for a while. The villagers have gotten fed up with it all and sent word out for help."

"And you do that sort of thing?" Horace asked, looking towards his traveling companion with new respect. "That's very chivalrous of you." Horace nodded approvingly. Though Gilan's next words spoiled that notion and dampened a lot of that respect.

"It pays well too," Gilan said, grinning. "Just look at that."

He took out a small scroll of paper from the front of his leather armor and tossed it to Horace who caught it. He unrolled it and read. It was indeed a plea for help. Horace looked at the sum the villagers were offering for such services and his eyes widened.

"As you can see, it is very important that I take this job," Gilan said, nodding slightly.

"If the village is as small as you say, they're offering almost half of their combined livelihood… probably."

"They're desperate people. They probably see the cost worth it to keep their families safe from being preyed upon and continually robbed. They probably see it as a worthwhile investment. I can't say I disagree." He chuckled softly.

Horace looked disapprovingly up at him; needless to say, knights didn't hold sell-swords in very high esteem. Gilan caught the look and grinned widely.

"I take it you don't approve?"

"Well," Horace shrugged uncomfortably, not wanting to offend the warrior, "I can't really say that I do."

Gilan smiled knowingly. "The code of chivalry is all very well, but there's one thing that you learn very quickly when you're out here alone." He stopped short and his gaze became suddenly serious. "An empty purse is an empty stomach."

Horace thought about that for a moment and then realized that Gilan did have a point—a fairly valid point—though he still didn't quite agree with the woodsman's methods. A moment of silence passed between them before Gilan broke it.

"It occurs to me that we've a couple choices to make: Aspienne Castle is a little ways after my stop. You and I could part ways once we reach the village—I'm sure you could find your own way to the castle from there. Or you could wait for me to finish my business and we'll continue on together to the castle."

Horace thought about it for a moment before deciding. "I wouldn't mind waiting."

In all honesty, he found that he had so far fairly enjoyed traveling with the tall woodsman and he was also intrigued and curious. When he thought of it, he realized he didn't much care for the idea of wandering on his own again.

 **~x~X~x~**

Will bent down to pick another sprig of yarrow. Helen, the village healer, had asked if he might fetch her some earlier. He had readily agreed, knowing that he'd have a fair bit of time before full dark. She had even offered to pay him a few coins for his efforts. He had refused at first, knowing that she had precious little by way of coin. But she had insisted, saying that, if not else, he could take them as a gift to help his Battleschool funds. With the few coins she'd offered, he'd have almost the amount he needed. He grinned to himself, excited at the prospect of finally reaching his dream.

His search for yarrow had taken him fairly deep into the woods surrounding the village, kilometers away from the closest farm and into the space where the trees and brush grew thick and tangled. As he straightened from his stooped position, he caught a faint whiff of something out of place. Pausing, he sniffed again, deeper this time. Then he placed it: wood smoke. He frowned slightly in confusion; he knew that there were no settlements nearby. Curious as to its source, he quietly glided through the woods, following his nose.

His mind was already bursting with possibilities as to what it could be: forest fire, a party of knights, or travelers—maybe even one of the fabled Rangers. He felt a shudder race down his spine as he thought of one of those black magicians being nearby. Then the shudder grew as he thought of other, more sinister possibilities: what if it was bandits? Or maybe some of Morgarath's army had broken through the border and were camped in the woods, just waiting for the opportunity to attack! Though those thoughts scared him they did nothing to make him turn around. If anything, they only made him twice as curious and determined to find out what it really was. Besides that, if it really was Morgarath's army, somebody needed to warn everybody—and maybe if he told the knights, they'd take him into their ranks.

The smell grew stronger even as the sky grew darker, and Will continued on even more carefully, moving instinctively with the patterns of the clouds as they scudded across the sky and over the full moon. He could see the faint orange glow of fire up ahead. It flickered as eddied in the breeze and figures passed in front of it. Will's footfalls were silent and measured. Long practice of moving quietly in the woods and on the farm made it so that he hardly made any sound at all as he crept towards the light.

It was a fairly large camp, he saw when he got close, made up of rough looking men. Even at that distance, Will found he didn't much like the look of them. Paradoxically, though, that fact only served to make him want to get even closer. He felt a slight thrill of nerves as he thought it. He tried to reason with himself that it wasn't just an overexcited sense of curiosity that made him want to look, but rather it was because it was the sort of thing a knight would do. A knight would always seek out and try to stop trouble before it came, to stop people who were definitely up to no good. And Will was certain that these men weren't.

Will peeked around a few shrubs to study them. The camp was situated in a low dell, probably so that the light from their fire wouldn't travel. He nodded to himself; it had almost worked. If it hadn't been for the scent of wood smoke Will probably wouldn't have ever become aware of their presence. There were six men sitting around the fire eating something. They were talking quietly, but Will couldn't make out the words from his position. Frustrated, he scanned the land around him and saw a sycamore tree that grew on the ridge of one side of the dell. It had a thick large canopy that overhung the camp below. It gave him an idea.

He crept towards the tree and studied it from behind. Will had always been a good climber and his quick eyes soon scouted out a path into the upper branches without ever crossing to the front or side of the tree—so that the men wouldn't ever catch sight of him.

Soon he had swarmed up its trunk and was edging out along one of the wide sturdy limbs that overhung the camp. There was a good strong breeze out and he carefully timed his movements to match the gusts of wind so that the tree boughs wouldn't rustle or shake in a telling manner. With a few more careful movements, he had reached the middle of the bough and was nearly over the heads of the men below. He gripped the branch, easing carefully down and then freezing in place.

So far the raggedy men remained oblivious to his presence. He knew that, as long as he stayed still and silent, they would probably stay that way. He recalled several times that he'd not known a forest animal was where it was until it moved. Besides that, he'd also noticed that people hardly ever looked up.

As he leaned down, the sounds of their conversation came clearly to his ears. He found himself mildly disappointed. They weren't really discussing anything interesting at all—just how far they marched and a few comments on the quality of their food. Just when he was about to lose interest in them, he became aware of another sound: the clumsy, crunching passage of something large making its way through the brush leading up to the rise, cresting it, and then making its way down into the camp. Will leaned out, placing the weight of his upper body on a smaller branch in order to better see what it was.

In the firelight, he saw that it was another man. And, judging by how the others greeted him, he guessed that he was probably their leader.

"Any news?" one of the others asked as the leader made his way to the fire and settled down in its warmth.

"Yes," the leader answered with a nod. "Everything will work out well enough. Our man on the inside is going to make it easy by finding some pretense to gather all the villagers together in one spot. Then we can move in and take them all. It's a small village, but there's enough people in it to fetch a good price at the markets."

The others laughed at that—a wholly unpleasant sound that became even more so as Will pieced together the meaning of the man's words. These rough-looking men were slavers and the only village nearby was Bawtry, his home. Will's eyes widened in horror and he gripped the bough tighter. He needed to find a way to warn everyone. Just as he began to move back, the unthinkable happened, the small branch he was leaning on snapped beneath him.

Without the tree limb to support the weight of his upper body, Will was thrown off balance. He teetered for a few milliseconds. He was dimly aware of men's faces in the firelight as they tilted their heads upwards at the sound of the breaking branch before he lost the fight for balance and felt himself starting to fall.

* * *

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading! I really do appreciate feedback: it motivates me and shows me how to improve. So, I don't know if anyone guessed this but, I introduced Evanlyn/ Cassandra in this chapter, (only briefly though). I'll really introduce her better in either the next chapter or the one after, depending on how all the parts fit. Also, next chapter's flashback/memory bit will probably be about Gilan (and maybe even answer a few of the questions that you guys have been asking). Let me know if you have any questions concerns or even suggestions and I'll see what I can do :) I hope you all have amazing and blessed weeks! There's been a lot of horrible/dangerous weather all over the place, especially South Asia, the Caribbean, Mexico, and the U.S, so I really hope/pray you all are/stay safe.

Until next time!


	7. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Hey everybody! I hope you're all doing well. Here's chapter six. Again, I apologize for the wait, school is still kicking my backside and life in general hasn't been any less busy. But I did make this chapter about 1,000 words longer than usual in an attempt to try to make up for it XD. Anyway, I really hope proves to be an enjoyable diversion. Thanks to everyone who read, followed, favorited, and reviewed. Your support means the world.

 **jaymzNshed:** Yup, your guess is correct! I hope this chapter helps answer a few of those questions… although it might also raise up a few more… *nervous/ guilty chuckle* XD Thanks for the complement, and the review! It made my day to read.

 **OakleafHeron:** Thanks for the constructive criticism, and for pointing out those errors. I appreciate the help. I made sure to fix all those little errors. Also thanks for the compliment and the support, I really appreciate that too.

 **Reader rangrr:** Thanks so much for the compliment and the review it was really encouraging :).

 **anonym:** Yeah, things are definitely going to be pretty hard for Halt from here on out. Thanks for the review, it means a lot!

 **Ranger-Corpses:** That's actually a really good idea you have there. Tell me how it works out and maybe I'll try it when I read and review stories. Yup, halt remembers, and I'll be sure to tell Gilan that you, at least, approve of his methods XD (and tell Will not to fall) XD Thanks so much for the review!

 **helloyesimhere:** Thanks so much for the encouragement and compliment, It means a lot!

 **TrustTheCloak:** I'm really glad to hear that! :) Yeah, Halt's not in for the best or easiest of times—especially when it comes to the people he knows/knew before. Thanks so very much for the review and the support! I really appreciate it.

 **Dragonslover98:** Yes, that boy is actually Evanlyn. So, that'll be a question that will get answered more as the story progresses but, for the most part, the answer to that is no, they won't remember just by seeing Halt, and yes, he'd have to reverse what the stone did in order to set everything right again. Thanks so much for the review! I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint.

* * *

 **Chapter 6**

 **~x~X~x~**

 _Around a few years after The Battle of Hackham Heath_

 **~x~X~x~**

 _Fifteen-year-old Gilan watched the bandit's camp from his position—hidden under some brush on a small rise that overlooked the encampment. It contained only two men, but one of those men had a bounty on his head: not just for thievery, but also murder. He'd killed a child in cold blood and, just recently, he had beaten and nearly killed an old woman when she wouldn't show him where her valuables were._

 _In short, the people of Cordom fief would be much better off, safer, and happier, if the man were to suddenly leave the picture. The fief would probably look better too on top of that, he thought as his eyes roved over the man's features. A faint smile touched his lips at the thought._

 _It had only been a few weeks more than a month since… since he'd… he shook his head, not allowing himself to think of it._

 _Regardless, it had only taken him that time to fully realize the horrible state that the kingdom was in. Knights swore to protect the weak and helpless as part of their code. It was part of what they were trained for. But when they focused all their attention on the ongoing war with Morgarath, it was the common people who suffered._

 _There were men ranging from petty thieves to outright murderers, all of them more than willing to exploit the kingdom's distraction. Long ago, before Morgarath's rebellion, it was people like the Rangers who really kept issues like this in check. But Gilan had heard from his fa— …he'd heard before that there were only about 10 or 11 Rangers left. They tried their best, but there were about 28 fiefs for them to watch and they were also the King's eyes, ears, and tacticians for the war. They were spread far too thin._

 _Consequently, the only way the King and Barons could think of compensating for this problem was by putting prices on the heads of any criminal that became noteworthy. Wolf's Heads, people called them, on the count that anyone could capture or kill them and receive a profit or reward from the local Baron, Battlemaster, Watch, or Garrison Commander for it. This was why he had followed the man and his partner when he had seen them; he'd recognized their faces from a bounty notice he seen in a village._

 _Gilan carefully and slowly lowered his chest and head so that he was lying fully face down as he tried to wait out, and breathe through, an uncomfortable pain in his stomach that had flared up suddenly. Compared to other pain he had felt, it definitely wasn't the worst by any means—but it did hurt and he felt a little lightheaded. Not a good thing for what he was planning._

 _He had rationed his meager food supply well over the past weeks. He still had a fair amount left: enough to last another week, or even two if he were careful. But it would run out soon, he knew. He had a small amount of money with which to buy more, but common sense, as well as some inexplicable inner voice, told him that he needed to think in the long term. How could he use the skills he had in order to be able to provide for himself?_

 _His first thought had been of joining the ranks of the outlaws and turning to thievery himself, but he really hadn't considered that thought for long or seriously. That had been nothing more than a fleeting rebellious and, admittedly, a slightly vindictive and humorous notion. It was one that he had absolutely no intention of ever carrying out._

 _He had, much more seriously, considered the idea of hiring himself out to a garrison or village watch. Though he didn't much like the idea, he still had yet to discard it fully—he might still need that option when winter came. Alternatively, he knew that he could disguise himself as a freelance knight. After all, he'd been fairly close to getting knighted when… when he'd left._

 _But he would need armor and a battle horse to make such a rouse believable, and he had neither. Another amused smile sprang to his lips as he thought of attempting it as he was, riding his shaggy little horse and dressed as a forester. He'd really fool the Barons that way._

 _The smile faded. The idea of being a knight poked too much at everything that still hurt him, everything he'd lost. Even if he had armor and a battle horse, he didn't think that he could do it. Not now, while everything was still far too fresh._

 _He caught himself before he reached a hand towards his back: a nasty habit he'd recently developed and really needed to break. The wounds there had healed; he didn't need to touch the newly formed, still very tender and angry, red scars to know it. He pushed those thoughts aside. That didn't matter in the moment._

 _What mattered was that he had found a way to use his skills without joining a garrison, watch, or even by masquerading as a knight. He'd found a way that he could use his skills and also help all the people that the war had caused the knights and Rangers to have to overlook. It felt right somehow._

 _The hunger pain in his stomach ended and he looked up slowly, resting on his elbows as he watched the camp. The two men hadn't moved. They still sat languidly around their little fire, seeming not to have a care in the world. Overconfident, Gilan thought with a grin. He could get in easily—and they were just two men. He could probably take them._

Never be too hasty. Don't rush into things _, some inner voice warned him._

 _Ever since he'd turned twelve, he'd always fancied that he had two distinct inner voices. One sounded like his own and the other he'd always imagined had a Hibernian accent._

 _It was good that he hadn't rushed into things, he realized then as he looked closer. The leader—the one with the bounty on his head—had a longbow lying on the ground behind him that Gilan had missed seeing earlier. If he had just rushed in, he could have been shot. He would need a plan if he was to capture these men without getting himself killed in the process. He chewed absently on his thumbnail as he tried to think of one. He wished there was a way to ambush each man separately. Tactically, he could see no other way he could succeed with what he had now. He waited._

 _A perfect opportunity presented itself when the bandit's partner went off into the woods to relieve himself. Gilan moved in then, circling down silently from his observation point, and arriving just in time to intercept the first bandit on his way back into the camp. His plan was to knock the partner out and then sneak up on the leader before he had a chance to use his bow—simple, but effective._

 _The plan would have worked perfectly too, if the partner hadn't have cried out as Gilan knocked him senseless with his sword hilt. Cursing softly, Gilan heard the leader coming to find out what had happened. The man spotted him instantly, just seconds before Gilan found decent cover. Gilan ducked behind a tree just as an arrow hissed through the place he'd just been. Another arrow hissed on its way and slammed into the trunk, then another._

 _Gilan glanced at his sword, knowing it could hardly be useful in a situation like this. His heart pounded as he tried to think of what to do._

 _Four seconds. He had counted four seconds in between each of the bandit's shots._

 _He glanced down then to where the second bandit lay sprawled. The man had tried to draw his saxe when Gilan knocked him senseless. The weapon was lying next to its owner's crumpled form. Another large tree was just to the downed man's other side._

 _He had an idea. But he needed to know if it truly took the bandit leader four seconds to loose a shaft, or if he could shoot faster if he chose. He knew only one way to find out. Heart hammering, he took a breath, gathering himself. He made a small quick move out from behind the trunk, as if he intended to break cover, before throwing himself quickly back where he'd been. The bandit fell for Gilan's feint, as Gilan had hoped he would. As soon as he heard the thud of another arrow, he moved. He darted out from behind cover, stooped then rolled into the cover of the next tree._

 _2…3…4, he counted in his head. Then another arrow flashed through the open space he'd just been in. He nodded to himself. Logic told him that, if the man could shoot any faster, he would have._

 _He gripped the saxe he'd taken from the ground. It felt familiar in his hand—he knew its balance. He held it in the way he instinctively knew he should to throw it. He must have practiced throwing knives somewhere before, though in the heat of the moment he couldn't quite remember when. He'd played with and practiced with many different weapons as a boy and in Battleschool after all._

 _"Come out and face me!" the bandit snarled, following up his threat with another shot—another smack, another arrow, another four seconds. Gilan mentally prepared himself, hoping that the man was angry enough to waste another arrow to keep him pinned down. He was. Slam! Gilan moved. He leaped out from cover, counting the seconds even as he drew back, sighted, and threw. The motion felt familiar, though clumsy. He knew the throw wasn't good even before it landed. He had aimed for the man's chest, but instead, the knife had hit him hilt-first in the shoulder._

 _Still, it had the desired effect. The impact was heavy enough to cause the man to release his grip on his bow with one hand. Gilan closed the distance between them in seconds, his sword out and at the ready. The man drew his own short sword fumblingly and the two dueled. But it only took seconds for the bandit to realize that he was outmatched, and only a couple seconds more for him to join his partner in unconsciousness._

 _Gilan soon had them both firmly tied. It was only then that he felt his heartbeat slowly returning back to normal. He was still alive, unharmed, and he had caught the bandits. When he turned them in, he would receive the money for the price on their heads, and the people of Cordom fief would be that much safer. He found himself grinning widely. He could do this. He could support himself by himself._

 _A thought struck him and he rooted through the bandit's packs. At the bottom of one was the goods they had just recently stolen from the old woman. He'd deliver it to the soldiers at the nearest garrison along with the bandits._

 _Something else caught his eye. In with the bandit's clothing, he caught sight of a rather nicely made hooded surcoat. It was a dull forest green and he was quite taken with it. The bandits wouldn't be needing it where they were going, he thought as he fingered it. He placed it in his own satchel. He was about to walk away when he saw the bandit's longbow. He took a few steps towards it then shook his head. He didn't know how to use it. Bows took years to master._

 _But it seemed to whisper at him as he turned to walk away, like catching sight of the face of an old yet almost forgotten friend._

 _If he learned to use it, it would make hunting easier—a far better system for a person who moved around constantly than the snares he was currently using. Not only that, but it would be handy to be able to use a ranged weapon; the events of today had taught him that well enough. He picked it up. It felt right in his hands, maybe… he couldn't even draw it back much at all, and that was with using all the strength of his arms—no, that wasn't right._

 _He released the tension, took a different stance and then tried again, this time using his back muscles as well as his arm muscles, leaning into the bow instead of just pulling back with his right arm. That made a difference and felt more right—though he still couldn't draw it back more than halfway. He grimaced as trying twinged his back. He released the tension again, promising that he'd practice that, and throwing that saxe knife. He was sure that, with time, he could get that right too. He took the saxe, its scabbard, and the head bandit's sheave of arrows._

 _The bandits were starting to wake then, and struggle slightly when they realized they were tied. Gilan stood directly in front of them with his sword drawn and held casually in his right hand. That caught their attention._

 _"I'm taking you to the garrison," Gilan told them with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I rather hope you'll try to escape along the way."_

 _Though he looked hardly more than a boy, there was something in his eyes that made them quail. Not only that, but he had already defeated them both in combat, quite soundly. They decided there and then that there would be no escape attempt._

 **~x~X~x~**

 _Present Day_

 **~x~X~x~**

Horace and Gilan watched from their concealed position on a rise overlooking the small village. Well, Horace thought, Gilan was actually doing most the watching. The village was only about twelve houses, and there was precious little going on outside after all—only a few milling people. And, in only a few moments of looking at the quaint and quiet scene, Horace felt he had gotten the gist of everything. But obviously, Gilan did not think the same for he stayed in his position, silently observing. He sat there, completely still, the only thing moving were his eyes as they flicked or moved slowly from one spot to another.

Horace tried to stay as still and unmoving as the woodsman, but was fidgeting before five minutes were even up. It was a little unnerving how Gilan could do that. After what seemed to Horace to be several hours, Gilan finally seemed satisfied. Horace let out a soft breath of relief. Earlier that morning, when he had asked Gilan if he could help him with his notice—rather than just sitting idly and waiting for him to finish—this hadn't exactly been what he'd had in mind. He'd pictured something more along the lines of chivalrous combat to save a village—swift action. This was all a little underwhelming. He sighed again. Gilan raised an eyebrow at him and Horace reddened and shrugged slightly.

"I guess I'm just not used to staying still for so long."

"You don't say," Gilan replied, a faint smile touching his lips.

The tall warrior rose to his feet and began moving down the hill towards the village, Horace following after him. He really didn't understand how the pastoral scene could have held the tall warrior's attention so readily. As far as Horace saw, there was absolutely nothing of interest. He'd seen a group of three farmers moving a large cart towards the stables of a shop that looked to belong to the village blacksmith. One stayed outside, looking up and down the streets while the other two unloaded the wagon. Four women and a couple of men had walked down the street, going about their business. Two tall men had emerged from one of the largest houses and headed down towards what looked to be a tavern, a few people nodding respectfully as they passed by. There had been a couple of children playing in the street, and an old man leading a milk cow. Then those three farmers back again with their cart heading for the blacksmith's stables. It really hadn't been all that riveting. He shook his head to himself and then a question came to mind.

"Do you usually wait that long?" Horace asked, curiously.

"Longer," Gilan said, smiling at Horace's surprised expression. "Sometimes it can take days to find out everything that could be important."

Silence fell between them for several moments as they turned onto the main village road, until Horace's curiosity got the better of him again.

"So, exactly how do you usually do this?" he could not help but ask. They had discussed a little of the process earlier, mostly when it came to negotiating terms, but Horace still wasn't sure what they were going to do first.

"I approach the village head man first to ensure that this," he gestured to the scroll that contained the plea for help, "is really what he wants, and assure that I can indeed take care of it."

Horace nodded. It made sense. "Where's the village elder's home?"

Gilan pointed to the one house that looked larger and more important than the others. "But he isn't there. He went to the village tavern about ten minutes ago," he said, indicating the opposite end of the street. He began heading in that direction.

By now Horace didn't feel the need to ask how Gilan knew that, or rather, how he was so certain. His friend had already shown he had a knack for knowing things, just little pieces of this and that which most people didn't notice he seemed to be able to put together. Horace simply nodded his understanding and instead asked a different question.

"Shouldn't you wait for him to finish and come back to his house?"

But Gilan shook his head. "No. It'll be more effective this way."

The two of them made their way towards the tavern, stopping for a moment when they reached the door. Gilan gave Horace a quick questioning look, silently asking if he remembered what they had discussed earlier that morning. Horace nodded once; he did remember. Gilan nodded back and then opened the door, stepping confidently through it.

Horace watched as he took in the room at a glance and then headed straight for a table near the middle, Horace following in his wake. He glanced surreptitiously at the faces of all the villagers in the tavern as his eyes adjusted. Most all of them were watching with slightly curious and wary expressions on their faces. There were also a few faces that even seemed openly hostile.

It made sense that the people here wouldn't be too friendly and trusting of strangers, considering their notice, but Horace couldn't help but shudder slightly at those dark expressions: he knew well what they could lead to. Unpleasant memories of Battleschool flicked to the fore of his mind and he glanced at Gilan, looking for something… worry perhaps. Gilan, however, seemed to pay them no mind at all. He simply stopped at the table he'd selected—one that was occupied by a tall and fit looking elderly man, the head man apparently, and a younger man whom Horace was certain was the elder's son.

"May I?" Gilan asked, gesturing to a seat across from them and then sitting down in it before the two could even regain their composure enough to answer.

Horace took up a position slightly behind and to the right of where Gilan sat, standing ready, his scabbarded sword within easy reach, as Gilan had instructed. Horace kept his eyes flicking to all the people in the room, sweeping for potential threats, for the same reason.

The elder and his son seemed a little startled by this turn of events. The village elder's eyes roved a little warily and uncertainly over Gilan, though he did manage to keep his composure. The son looked to his father with obvious concern and looked at Horace and Gilan with that unguarded hostility he'd seen on the faces of a few others. Horace felt a slight hum of tension come into his body as he noticed this. He just managed to check himself from letting his hand reach instinctively for his sword.

"Is there something I can do for you?" the village elder asked finally.

Gilan grinned at that. "Actually, I believe that it's the other way around," he said, taking the scroll that contained the plea for help and placing it on the table between them. "I'm here about your notice."

Horace noticed that the elder's eyes cleared with understanding as they roved over Gilan once more—understanding mixed with the barest touch of approval or, perhaps, respect. Gilan had, after all, managed to pick him out of the crowd and seemed to know exactly what he was about. The son, however, was an entirely different story. His expression was now something along the lines of contempt.

"You're too late. We don't have need of your services anymore," he said, pushing the scroll back to Gilan and crossing his arms. "We've already dealt with the problem ourselves." He pointedly ignored his father's slightly disapproving look.

"Oh?" Gilan asked, his eyebrows raised in question. "You mean you've already driven them off?"

"Don't see how it's any of your business, but no, we didn't have to. We found a better way to keep our stores safe, without wasting what little we have on a common mercenary."

Though intent on the unexpected turn of the conversation, Horace looked away from the son to scan the room again, as he had been doing. Most of the people there now had all of their attention fixed on the small table, watching silently as the scene unfolded.

"You mean you've hidden them," Gilan guessed, a guess that proved itself correct as the son startled slightly in surprise and the watchers in the room seemed to suck in their breaths.

The son quickly tried to regain his composure, putting on a confident air. "We have. It's a good plan; we hide what food we can. That way, when they come, we give them "all" of what we have—they'll only see what we didn't hide so they'll believe us."

"You could certainly try that," Gilan nodded slowly, "but men like the ones you're facing usually wise up to those kinds of tricks pretty quickly. And, once you've aroused their suspicions, don't you think that they'll eventually find out that you've hidden all the extra grain and goods in the blacksmith's stables?" he asked meaningfully.

That caused an absolute uproar. Many villagers rose to their feet in angry shock and the headman and his son seemed struck speechless. The son's expression soon took on the anger that was shared by most in the room, but the headman seemed more reserved, or upset, Horace couldn't tell.

"If I can figure it out, so can they," Gilan said calmly, seemingly unperturbed by the reaction of the villagers around him. His eyes stayed focused on the village elder as he added, "And tell the man at the back of the room that if he makes another move towards me, I'll put an arrow through him."

Horace who had been watching the man Gilan had named, picking him out as a potential threat, glanced back at Gilan to see that sometime during the uproar he had taken his bow from off his shoulder and it was now in his hands, an arrow on the string—though he hadn't yet drawn it. Gilan was fast, dangerously fast, Horace realized. The frozen tension in the room carried on for a moment before Gilan broke it.

"None of you have anything to fear from me when it comes to your provisions. I have no interest in your stores or supplies… your bandits on the other hand…" he shook his head. "And they'll be even angrier when they figure out that you tried to trick them."

A lot of the anger in the room started shifting more towards fear.

"Besides that," Horace said, surprising himself by speaking up and stepping forward, "even if you did manage to hide the supplies from them successfully this time, what's to keep them from coming back and trying again later?"

Gilan seemed a little surprised at the intrusion but nodded approvingly at Horace's simple, but unarguable, logic.

The son started forward in anger but the headman stopped him with a warning touch to his arm.

"No, he's right; they both are. If we want everyone to be safe, we have to stop these men for good. Tricking them isn't a good long term solution—even if it would work…" he paused before adding, looking meaningfully at Gilan, "which I'm having doubts about now. I think our best option is to go with our first decision." He tapped the notice meaningfully. "Very well." He nodded at Gilan and Horace, "You can consider yourselves hired." It had become apparent to Horace that the elder already approved of them both.

The son didn't seem too happy about this, probably because it had been his idea to try and hide the stores, Horace guessed. But, eventually, he too saw the sense in what had been said. His shoulders slumped slightly and he nodded. The room finally seemed to settle completely after that, and Horace found himself relaxing a little. The elder gestured for Horace to pull up a seat as well. Horace glanced at Gilan who nodded before moving to take the offered seat.

"Good. Now that's settled, first things first: what will you need from us?" the elder asked, signaling for the tavern owner to bring them some drinks.

"Information," Gilan replied promptly, without the slightest hesitation, "any and all information you can tell me about these brigands of yours. Even things that seem inconsequential could be useful."

Horace, having made himself comfortable, couldn't quite manage to ignore the bowls of warm soup that were being eaten at the next table over. As if on cue with his thoughts, his stomach grumbled loudly.

Gilan smiled at that and then added, "And perhaps a bowl of soup for my friend here."

The elder nodded, grinning in turn. "Can't have him dying on us before you even face the bandits."

 **~x~X~x~**

Will flailed as he plummeted, desperately to catch himself, to stop his fall, anything. At the last minute, he managed to catch hold of a branch that jutted out below the one he'd previously been perched on. It was narrow and it bent dangerously as it bore his weight, but held firm. For a horrifying moment, he dangled helplessly over the heads of the slavers below.

His heart beat wildly in his chest as he desperately tried to keep his hold on the narrow branch. Sycamore trees were smooth for the most part and covered in what felt to be a thin layer of powder. It made the branches slick and he was slipping. It wasn't just the thought of the fall that terrified him—the ground was a long way down, after all—but also the thought of men that awaited him if the fall didn't kill him. As if in response to his fear, the shouting from below intensified, changing in pitch from startled surprise to anger. The sound made his heart leap in his throat even as it galvanized him into action.

Chest heaving and muscles straining, he managed to pull himself upwards so that his upper body was resting on that lower branch. He reached up. Grasping desperately and up at the larger bough that he had first fallen from. He pulled himself up onto that one too, and then scrambled along its length until he reached the trunk of the tree. He could hear the leader shouting clearly for his men to pursue him. No sooner were the words shouted, then Will realized that he was trapped. He couldn't climb down, nor could he just wait here. If the men were determined enough, they'd eventually try to climb up after him. So he did the only thing he could think of; he started to climb even higher. Just as he did so, he felt the tree shake slightly as one of the men obviously tried to climb up after him.

Heart pounding, Will climbed upwards with all the agility of a squirrel until he reached the highest branches and could go no further. The glow from the firelight was now far below him and did not reach high enough to illuminate the branches around him. He chanced a glance downwards to see if the men were close to catching him, but the canopy grew too thick for him to see anything other than vague moving shapes below.

Desperately, his eyes scanned in the direction opposite of their camp and saw another tree growing close to the one he occupied. Heights generally held no terror for Will, but he felt the muscles in his chest constrict slightly as he decided what to do. He licked his lips, hesitating for only a moment before his eyes locked on a particular branch in the other tree that he could just make out in the dark. Quickly, he climbed a little lower to a sturdier branch. Before he could give himself the chance to reconsider, he jumped.

His hands connected with and then clasped around the oak bough he'd aimed for. He hung for a moment before scrabbling up and into the tree, already looking for another tree close enough to jump to and leaped again. He was able to do this a couple more times before he reached a spot where there were no other trees near enough for him to jump to. Panicked, he looked back, expecting to see all the slavers hot on his tail, and saw… nothing. They obviously hadn't seen him jump for the oak and their shouting had drowned out the sound of his leap. Taking advantage of this, he scrambled down from the tree and ran as fast as his legs would carry him away from the camp of men.

Terror gave him a speed he did not even know he possessed as he sprinted for his life, for his freedom and for the freedom of his village. He felt his heart leap into his mouth a few times when he thought heard the sound of pursuit behind him, and when a few shadows and tree branches seemed to reach out and grab him. Eventually, he made it to his secret spot and crawled through the underbrush and into his hollow oak.

He knew he'd probably stand a better chance of not being found if he stayed hidden, held completely still. He listened—but there was nothing aside from the usual sounds of the night. Nevertheless, he stayed still, waiting until the sun started to brush the horizon, making the woods glow pale blue through the trees. He crept out from the tree and the underbrush. Keeping his senses on high alert, he moved, carefully at first, and then as quickly as he could, towards Bawtry.

The town was still starting to wake by the time he made it near. Will wove down the streets, heading purposely towards the home of the leader of the village watch. He skidded to a stop and then rapped impatiently on the door. If anyone in the village could do something about the slavers, it was Captain Frederick and his men. There was no response, so Will knocked again, not even caring that he might make the head of the watch angry by rousing him so early. He was in the middle of a knock when the door swung open to reveal Frederick's wife. She looked him up and down and opened her mouth to ask him a question, but he beat her to it.

"Can I speak to the captain, please?" Will asked breathlessly, practically dancing from foot to foot with excitement and nerves. "It's an emergency!"

The woman took in his expression and stance and then nodded, thankfully not asking questions. "He's meeting with the elder right now, but you can wait in the hall for him to finish. It'll only be about a minute, can it wait that long?"

Will nodded acceptance of that. Considering his standing in the village, he'd almost expected to be brushed off or forced to wait longer than a few minutes. He followed after the woman who led him into a small hallway. At the end was a closed door that led to the captain's office. The woman turned and then left him there to wait. Will fidgeted impatiently outside the door. Each second seemed to drag on as long as a minute or more.

Soon he couldn't stand to wait any longer and he pressed his ear against the door to try and hear what was going on the other side—so he could tell if they were nearing being finished or not. Already he was debating with himself as to what he'd do if the conversation showed signs of dragging on any longer. Banging on the door or barging in would likely land him in serious trouble—but the whole village could get in trouble if he didn't. However, all those thoughts fled from his mind as he heard what it was that was being said on the other side of the door.

"Well, Fredrick," The village elder was saying, "I think you're right. The whole village would benefit from a small spring fair. It'll do a lot to brighten the mood after the hard winter—as well as bring us all together."

"That's what I thought," the captain of the watch said pleasantly. "If it's alright with you, might I suggest two days after a week from today as the start date?"

"I don't see why not," the elder replied. There came a slight scraping sound as he rose from his chair—probably signifying the end of the meeting. "Thanks for the idea, and for bringing it to my attention. Perhaps we can even make it a yearly thing."

"A good idea," Fredrick said approvingly.

Will's mind, however, had frozen at the mention of this spring festival. Though it sounded innocent, something about it wasn't sitting well with him, was ringing alarm bells in his mind. But he didn't know what it was. He frowned, thinking. And then it came to him. He remembered something the slavers had said the night before: that they had a man on the inside who was going to find some pretext to gather all the villagers in one spot. Bawtry had never before had a spring festival—and Will could only think of one reason to suddenly start having one now. It was as the elder had just said: "bring everyone together". An ugly suspicion began forming in Will's mind. Captain Fredrick, head of the village watch, was quite possibly working with the slavers. Will took a step back from the door in shock, just seconds before it swung open to reveal the village elder on his way out. The man only offered Will a small nod of acknowledgment as he passed him. Before Will could even think to do anything, Fredrick saw him.

"What are you doing here… boy?" Fredrick asked, settling on the last word when he couldn't remember Will's name.

Will nearly flinched at the question as he tried to decide what to do, fumbling for some excuse, any excuse, to be here. Now that he knew about Fredrick, the last thing he could do was tell the man that he knew about the slavers, about their plan, and had guessed too the true purpose of Fredrick's 'spring festival'. His hesitation lasted only for a moment as an excuse came quickly to mind.

"Well, Captain Fredrick sir, Famer Dorian sent me because that fox he's been after raided the chicken coup again—took five hens!" Will lied, hoping that the man couldn't hear the sound of his racing heartbeat, couldn't see right through him. "He says it's an emergency and for you to come as soon as you can!"

The whole village knew well of farmer Dorian's yearly battle with the accursed fox who'd been raiding his chicken coup for the past three years—and couldn't catch. He had sent Will to pester the watch captain before about it. Frederick's response now was the same as it had been the last times Dorian had sent Will to him.

His eyebrows drew downward in irritation.

"I already told you, boy, to tell Dorian that my men and I can't afford to go chasing after every fox that plagues every farm. If we did that, then we might not be around when we're needed for something that's actually important!"

"I tried to tell him that," Will said, warming to his theme now, "but he wouldn't listen."

Fredrick rubbed at his temples and then relented slightly. "Tell him that, if the problem gets any worse, and one of my men finds themselves with some free time, I might send them over," he sighed in annoyance, signifying the end to that discussion.

"Thank you," Will said, taking that as his cue to leave.

Once he was back on the street, he breathed out a sigh of relief—certain that the man had bought his lie, and didn't suspect that he guessed he was working with the slavers. But his moment of relief didn't last long. He soon realized that he was quite possibly in a worse situation than he'd been in before. Bawtry was still in imminent danger. What was worse was that the person in charge of protecting it, was in on it all. Will knew of an impending attack, but now had no idea who he could go to get help, had no idea what he could do to stop it all.

 **~x~X~x~**

Halt closed the distance between himself and the mounted knight quickly, stopping only when he was about six meters away. He stood out in the open, his bow at full draw.

"Let the boy go," he said, loud enough to draw the knight's attention. The man startled in surprise, his posture stiffening. Halt couldn't see much of the man's face through the lowered visor of his helm, and so couldn't make out his expression. He could, however, make out the snarl that the man emitted as well as the telltale flexing of the fingers on the hand that was not currently occupied with holding the young boy.

"Don't try it," Halt warned, milliseconds before the man drew the dagger at his side. In a blur of motion, Halt shot the weapon from his hand before he even got the chance to throw it.

"I said, let the boy go," Halt repeated calmly, stepping forward a few paces.

He saw the knight hesitate, as if he were weighing his options. He was dressed in full armor and Halt's arrowhead was a simple leaf-shaped broadhead. But the knight knew now the extent of Halt's speed and accuracy, and likely knew also that there was a good chance Halt could shoot him through the eye slits of his visor if he chose. His only possible defense against that would be the shield currently strapped to his horse's saddle. Slowly, he moved to slide the boy roughly off his saddle, dropping him like a sack of potatoes to land ungracefully near his horse's hoofs. The youngster rose hastily to his feet and made his way quickly behind Halt.

"Now, drop your sword, shield, and helm," Halt ordered, not missing a beat. His bow was still at full draw, his body not showing the slightest strain at holding back the eighty pounds of the draw weight. Again the knight hesitated before he complied, dropping his sword shield and helm to the forest floor before him.

"Turn around and ride away," Halt said.

"You'll pay for this!" the man snarled. And, now that his helm was off, Halt could clearly see the anger and hatred darkening his expression. "That _boy_ ," he stressed the title, "belongs to my lord Deparnieux!"

"I don't care if he belongs to the king himself," Halt replied, steel coming into his voice. "I believe I told you to ride away."

He was beginning to feel the strain of holding the draw and he was getting sick of this standoff and of the conversation. As he was thinking this, he became aware of an odd humming sound growing behind him, a sound that he couldn't place—but he knew that taking his eyes off of the knight would be a mistake.

"You have no right poking your nose into business that doesn't concern you! This is far from over," the knight screamed. "Lord Depan—" something wised past Halt's ear and struck the knight in the head mid-sentence. The man let out a pained gurgle and then slumped from his horse, unconscious.

Halt turned, a little surprised to see the boy still standing at his side, a sling held loosely in his right hand. Halt raised an eyebrow, but there was the barest trace of a smile on his face none the less: it had been a very good shot. He studied the youngster more carefully. He was small, probably only about 15 or so and dressed in simple travel-worn clothes. He could also tell, under the dust that coated him, that his cheeks were a little hollow, expression a little strained, wary, haunted. It had probably been a while since he'd eaten a good meal, or felt completely safe. But there was courage and determination in his expression and his stance. Halt found himself nodding approval internally.

"Thanks," Halt told him nodding slightly. "I was afraid I was going to have to shoot the silly idiot."

The boy smiled wearily up at him, green eyes bright against the dirt coating his face. "He was getting a little annoying, wasn't he?" he replied before adding, "and I think that I should be the one thanking you—for helping me get away from him."

Halt, however, had frozen slightly as he spoke—not because of what had been said, but rather _how_ it had been said. The boy wasn't a boy after all, Halt realized, but rather a girl dressed as one—it was her soft voice that gave her away. However that wasn't the only thing that had caught his attention; despite the fact that she had spoken to him in Gallic, her accent was noticeably Araluen.

"You're Araluen?" He asked, switching languages. And when she nodded, looking a little surprised, he added, "What's your name then?"

She seemed almost to think for a moment before she answered, "Evanlyn, Evanlyn Wheeler."

* * *

 **A/N:** Thanks so much for reading! I hope you all have an amazing week! Feedback is always appreciated. Let me know if you see anywhere that I can improve, have questions or suggestions. Until next time!


	8. Chapter 7

**A/N:** I'm really sorry for the delay everyone! I just finally submitted my last essay and took my last final for the fall term though. That means I'll have a few weeks off from school for winter break, so I'm hoping to get some decent writing done... finally XD. Today's flashback belongs to Evanlyn; so I can explain exactly how she wound up in Gallica. Thanks to everyone who read, followed, favorited, and reviewed; it means the world.

 **Anonim:** Don't worry, I promise I'll explain. X) I would think I'd be losing my mind if I heard that too XD But thankfully, in Gilan's case, it's nothing so specific or odd as that. To answer your question, for the most part, no Will doesn't—at least not to the same extent (there is a reason for that that will be explained later, I promise that too). XD Thanks so much for the review, and for the compliment. I really appreciate it.

 **TrustTheCloak:** Yes, there is a very good chance of those three meeting up. I hate it when he's written that way too! It really bugs me, especially when there's tons of evidence to the contrary all over the place in the books X) Halt and Evanlyn will be on their way soon and Halt and Crowley will definitely find each other again as well. Thanks for the review! It made my day.

 **jaymzNshed:** I'm really glad you liked it—and that it came off well. Yes, Will's in a bit of a pickle, but at least he has a plan! (or will get one eventually) XD Yes, you're right, that is the same evil warlord from book three and yes he's not quite finished causing trouble. Thanks so much for the review! I really appreciate it.

 **Dragonslover98:** Thank you :D that's really nice of you to say. This chapter should answer a lot of your guesses about what everyone is going to do. And I promise that I am starting to bring everybody back together. Thanks again for the review; It means a lot.

 **Ranger-Corpses:** I'll get to the answer to that question as soon as I can (or as soon as the plot permits) XD Will's going to eventually come up with a plan to help the village. Thanks so much for the review. It really brightened my day.

 **helloyesimhere:** Thanks so much for the compliments and for the review! It was really encouraging. :3

* * *

 **Chapter 7**

 **~x~X~x~**

 _A Few Weeks Previous_

 **~x~X~x~**

 _She had been sent to Gallica so that she would be safe from the war. For some reason, she couldn't keep that thought from her head. It was a cruel irony if she had ever heard one, she thought darkly as she made her way, as silently as she could, through the woods that surrounded the open patch of farmlands ahead of her. There had never before been a time in her life when she had felt less safe, felt more afraid._

 _Yes, she had been sent to Gallica to keep her away from, and so safe from, the war. A distant uncle on her father's side was a Gallic lord who held sizable holdings in the north. Somehow, through discussion between her father and that uncle, they had all come to the agreement that she would be better off and safer if she were to be raised by her uncle's family._

 _It was not, after all, an unheard of arrangement in the circles of noble families. And she had been treated as family_ — _as if she were her uncle's own daughter… but that had been before the warlord Deparnieux had attacked. Memories of bloody vicious fighting, of the castle in smoldering ruins, of her uncle telling her to flee, of the men that had chased her and her retinue… of the face of her lady's maid, her friend, lying dead… all of her retinue lying dead, sacrificing themselves to get her safely away, burned painfully at the forefront of her mind._

 _She felt her throat close up and the tears she had desperately been trying to hold back these past few days gather in her eyes. She closed them. She couldn't afford to break down here, or now. She had to focus only on staying alive, focus on finding a way back to Araluen, back to her father—for she was not safe here. This was because the warlord had obviously gotten some intelligence that her uncle had been playing host to a foreign princess. She could think of no other reason why he had pursued her so relentlessly—why he still hunted her._

 _He obviously hoped to gain an extravagant ransom for her capture, or thought she'd be a useful piece in a gambit for power… or worse… Regardless, her father was beleaguered by the war, he probably couldn't afford half a ransom: he had enough trouble keeping his kingdom fed and as safe as he could. And Cassandra had no intention of becoming a political tool… or worse… She felt her chest tighten as she thought it._

 _She paused at the edge of the clearing, eyes locked on the lone farmstead before her. It had once been occupied, she knew. But that had been before Deparnieux and his men had attacked her uncle's holdings. Part of the building was burned, and there was no sign of any people or animals anywhere. She gathered herself and then dashed quickly down the hill towards the building—wanting to cover the open land between the woods and the farmstead as quickly as possible. Once she reached the farmhouse, she crouched in its shadow, listening. She breathed a sigh of relief when she heard no sound other than the typical sounds of the early evening._

 _Inside, she began rifling through the shelves and the root cellar—looking for anything to eat, and anything that could help her. Luck seemed to be with her, for she found several crusts of stale bread and some dried meat and fruit. It was enough to last her long enough for her to make it to the coast. She shoved it all, and a length of rope, into a leather satchel she found trampled near the door to one of the bedrooms._

 _Knowing that it was not safe to stay any longer, she headed again for the door but stopped when she caught sight of a strip of leather that had been carefully shaped and molded: a sling. In one of the other abandoned houses she had visited—the one where she had found the peasant boy clothes that now disguised her—she had found a small hunting bow. But she had been unable to learn how to use it on the go and so had left it behind. She knew how to use a sling though. She'd often used one when she was younger back home. She had even done so at her uncle's castle before she had been forced into learning the more ladylike activities a princess was meant to be proficient in...for all the good those specific skills did her here._

 _She reached down for the sling, running her fingers over it to make certain it was in good condition. She set the thongs of it in her hands, as if she were going to use it. Somehow that action, knowing that she now had some means of defending herself, started to make her feel just a little safer. She slung the satchel over her shoulder and tucked the sling into her belt where she'd be able to reach it, and use it, at a moment's notice. Now all she needed was to find some rounded stones._

 _She slipped out of the house and back into the forest, using what she knew of astronomy to find her direction and start moving towards the coast. She tried desperately not to let the niggling doubts that she had about her abilities take control. She was only fifteen, after all, and had no idea how to survive alone like this...She had no idea how much longer she could outrun and outsmart her pursuers. She gritted her teeth, promising herself that she'd find a way out of this mess, find a way back home._

 **~x~X~x~**

 _Present Day_

 **~x~X~x~**

Cassandra—or rather Evanlyn now, she mentally corrected herself—stood facing the man who had just saved her from the knight: a knight who would have brought her kicking and screaming straight into the arms of the warlord she had been fleeing. They had gotten safely away from the immediate area where the knight had nearly caught her and had stopped so she could rest a little.

She had told the man that her name was Evanlyn, the name of her lady's maid, and that she was from Greenfield Fief. Mostly it was because she was certain that she couldn't trust anyone with her true identity, not even this man, despite the fact that he had saved her—and the fact that there was something about him that struck a familiar chord.

On the surface, he looked like simple a yeoman. He had a grim manner and grizzled appearance. His hair and beard were salt and pepper, and a little unkempt looking. But there was something more about him that she couldn't put her finger on—something almost reassuring. But she couldn't focus on that at the moment because she needed to prepare herself, and get her story straight in her mind, in order to answer his next inevitable questions. They weren't long in coming.

"If you're from Greenfield Fief," the man began, "how exactly did you wind up here in Gallica? It's not exactly a day ride away," he added dryly.

"I… was, or rather, my lady was visiting relatives up in the northern part of Gallica," she began, not noticing how he seemed to start slightly at her words or how his eyes had narrowed slightly in thought or concentration. "To be safer from the war in Araluen… But about a week ago, the warlord Deparnieux attacked and over-ran the castle. My lady and I tried to escape, but the warlord's men surrounded her and the rest of the retinue," she said, her voice breaking slightly as she remembered that awful night, relieved the horror, heard the screams anew, saw… saw… "They killed…" she trailed off unable to continue past the lump in her throat. "I ran," she finished finally when again found her voice, "I wanted to help them… but I couldn't… and I ran…" She trailed off into silence again, feeling the tears that she'd been trying to hold back for the past week start to run freely down her face.

Soon she was crying openly and couldn't stop herself despite her best efforts. All the exhaustion of the past week seemed to catch up with her all at once and she found herself swaying slightly. Through the sheen of tears that blurred her vision, she saw grizzled man moved forward to catch her before she fell and then help her sit down. He even went so far as to offer her the forest green cloak that he wore and she accepted it. She was faintly aware of him sitting next to her. He hesitated for a moment then reached out an awkward hand to grip hers reassuringly. She gripped it back.

"I'm… sorry that happened," He said finally, slowly. And although the words were simple, he was sincere, and it meant something for her to hear them. It didn't fix what had happened, didn't take away the pain of loss, but it helped to know that someone cared, and perhaps even understood. After a long while, she finally started to calm a little and was able to continue with her story.

"The warlord and his men still hunt me… and I don't have any idea why..." She said, scrubbing at her face with her hands; her eyes felt puffy and tired from weeping. "I've been traveling at night and hiding during the day. But today I broke that habit so that I could try and buy passage on a boat to escape across the channel. Deparnieux has his men everywhere and one of them recognized me somehow, right as I was about to approach one of the ship captains. He chased me all the way into the woods, and that's where you found me."

She saw him nod thoughtfully, a slight frown on his face. Suddenly, she was able to put a name to the things that had made him seem familiar: the two knives placed in scabbards close together at his side, the longbow and quiver of black painted shafts, his cloak and the way he dressed, even the way he moved. His accent was Hibernian and not Araluen true, but surely it was all too great to just be a coincidence. She felt a small flare of hope.

"Pardon me for asking but are you," she began wondering how to ask and then just deciding to just flat out say it, "are you a Ranger?"

He seemed taken aback by the question and then she saw a stricken, almost pained look come into his dark eyes. He hesitated for a moment before nodding at her. His expression now was, if anything, even more grim than before.

"I…was, once," he said finally, quietly.

"Before the war?" she asked softly. Her father had told her stories of how Morgarath had nearly destroyed the Ranger Corps, how many of the old rangers had been killed, banished, or driven off to other countries.

He sighed and then answered, "Yes."

He seemed to consider that to be the end of the conversation for he turned, searching through his packs until he found some food which he passed to her. She accepted it gratefully and took several hungry bites; she hadn't eaten in a very long while. Despite this, she couldn't stop her mind from running with questions and curiosity. She knew he wanted her to drop the subject. And his admittedly grim manner wasn't really one that invited questions or conversation, but her curiosity soon got the better of her.

"What happened?" She ventured after the silence between them had stretched for a long time.

"It's not important," he said brushing it off, his tone broaching no further argument or questions. "Do you know what is important though?" he said finally after another pause. When she shook her head mutely in answer, he continued, "Finding a way back to Araluen. That is important."

She looked up at that, surprised. She was about to speak when he beat her to it.

"Which is a bit of a problem: I don't have the time to travel days to get to another port, and I'm certain that our friend the knight has already alerted this Deparnieux to the fact that you are here and that you were trying to get passage on a ship. My guess is that he'll send men to scour this forest, and also station men to guard the port. It's going to be tricky for us to get out. Which leaves me to think of a plan to get around them I suppose," he took stock of Evanlyn's surprised and questioning glance, and added, "and you to pester me with endless questions, no doubt."

Evanlyn, however, was stuck on something he'd said earlier. "You mean you'll help me get back to Araluen?" Truthfully, if he hadn't offered she had planned to beg or even try offer to pay him for his help. A Ranger, even a banished, disgraced, or wandering one was a powerful ally to have.

Halt raised an eyebrow, "I see it's already started," he said of her question before he answered it. "We both are trying to get to the same place. And I'm not about to leave you here for this Depanieurx to find—especially not since he wants so you badly. I've seen enough of his work to know that I'd enjoy upsetting his plans."

"Me too," Evanlyn said decisively, the haunted look coming back into her eyes, except this time it was heavily tempered with both anger and determination.

"When you're ready, we'll set off towards the port town," he said finally.

She nodded, stuffing the last piece of food into her mouth, then rising determinately to her feet and dusting off her hands. "Do you know of a way to get us past the knights and onto a ship?" she asked hopefully.

"I have an idea," he said before looking sidelong at her. "I trust you know how to swim?"

She nodded, despite being puzzled by the unexpected question.

"Good," he said simply as he signaled her to follow.

"How—" she started, but he cut her short with a raised hand.

"I think that's enough questions for now. I'll explain further when we get to the town."

Evanlyn nodded, not wanting to push her luck. The last thing she wanted was to drive the Ranger away. He was her best chance of getting home. Besides that, despite his grim and forbidding manner, she liked him—if only because he'd saved her, and because he was the closest thing she had to something being familiar in this foreign country. Then another thought occurred to her and she opened her mouth to speak without thinking.

"Excuse me, Ranger?"

He sighed. "What is it now?"

His short tone made her wince slightly before she straightened; "I just realized I don't know your name."

"I'm called Halt." He said and she nodded thoughtfully as she followed in his wake.

Halt, for his part, had a lot to consider, and not just about how he was going to get the two of them past Deparnieux and his men. The girl called herself Evanlyn Wheeler from Greenfield Fief. And, even as she had said it, the words had struck a chord in Halt's memory; something his former apprentice had said when he'd been reporting on the happenings in Celtica… was it really years ago now?

It had been back in that other time, not long before the incident with Morgarath's stone. Evanlyn's story seemed to mirror exactly the one that his former apprentice had told of the girl that he had found in Celtica while on the mission to deliver dispatches—a mission that had gone awry when they had discovered that Celtica had already been attacked by Morgarath.

The girl Evanlyn, in that time, had at first been thought to be the Princess Cassandra of Araluen's maidservant. However, when Gilan had pointed out that the girl had been blonde with green eyes and small of stature, they had all realized the truth. Gilan had surmised that Evanlyn was, in fact, Princess Cassandra, and that she had taken her maid's identity _"because she thought it was safer if she remained incognito"_ Halt remembered Gilan saying.

He closed his eyes for a moment as he tried not to think of everyone that he had left behind. Instead, he focused back on the girl. He tried mentally comparing her with the last image he had of Princess Cassandra in the other time. She'd been little more than nine then, but he could see the similarities. Also, her asking if he was a Ranger, and the relieved look on her face when he had said he was, had as good as confirmed it. Only the Araluen nobility felt comfortable like that around Rangers. It was probably why the warlord so determined to capture her; he must have figured out her true identity as well. It was the only thing that made sense.

Halt was certain that this Evanlyn was the same as the one in the other time, and was, therefore, nothing less than the Crown Princess of Araluen. That only made it more imperative that he got her to safety. She was the future monarch of the kingdom that he had sworn allegiance to. She would need to be there if he was ever to try and find a way to fix everything. Besides that, though he would never admit it aloud, there was something about her that he found himself liking. She was determined and brave. She had a quick mind and was very good with the sling she carried. As things stood, he'd definitely had worse company.

For a moment, he toyed with the idea confronting her about her identity. In the end, though, he decided not to mention it—not only because he didn't want to scare her off, but also because what his former apprentice had said in that other lifetime was true: it was safer that way.

That decided, he turned his mind back to the problem of getting passage on a ship. As he'd told Evanlyn, he had the beginnings of an idea. He just needed to work out the logistics of it, something he couldn't do until he knew for certain what they were up against. One thing was certain though, he thought grimly, they were both in for a rather cold swim.

 **~x~X~x~**

Horace stood near the northern entrance to the village. According to the headman, this was the direction that all the previous raids had come from. It was, for that reason, that Gilan had had some of the villagers—ones that had experience poaching and so knew back trails, as well as how to stay relatively unseen— act the part of lookouts for him. He hoped that this would give some advance warning before the inevitable attack. He'd also had the rest of the village preparing in other ways. In fact, the first few days preparing and waiting had been torture to Horace. All the expecting an imminent battle, but not knowing when, had him on edge. It almost had him wishing for the upcoming clash; just to get it over with, he thought wryly. It was then that Horace saw one of the scouts, Sam by name, come running up.

"Tom spotted them by the south bend in the road!" Sam gasped out through raged, panting breaths.

"How long?" Horace asked.

"No more'n fifteen minutes," Sam said, still trying to catch his breath.

Horace nodded, feeling an uncomfortable sensation of butterflies in his stomach. "I'll go tell Gilan."

So saying, he headed down the town street at a jog, carefully avoiding certain spots in the road.

"Gilan!" he called when he was halfway. He saw the tall warrior turn from where he was busy directing a small group of villagers. Horace beckoned for him to meet him halfway and Gilan obliged.

"Sam says they're on their way! They've been spotted by the south bend and should be here in no less than fifteen minutes."

The tension that Horace had felt building in his stomach had reached a fever pitch by now and he looked for and answering fear or tension in Gilan, but could sense none. Not for the first time, he wondered how it was that Gilan could be so calm. He merely nodded at the news and placed a hand on Horace's shoulder.

"Good work, Horace," he said simply. "We're about finished here. You go back and keep watch and I'll get all the villagers safe inside. If I've not come to join you by the time you first catch sight of them, come and fetch me."

"Yes, Sir!" Horace said, old habit causing him to stand at attention before moving off to do as Gilan had instructed.

Gilan smiled faintly at the boy's back. Over the past few days, he'd told the youth to just call him Gilan. 'Sir' was a title only for knights, or in some cases, senior military officers, and he was neither. Then he shook his head slightly. He really couldn't blame Horace. He knew from experience that the 'Sir' business was drilled into the heads of Battleschool apprentices. Besides, he had more pressing things to worry about at the moment. He turned away from the sight of Horace and headed back to where he'd been. He looked up when he heard the measured gait of the headsman.

"Is it time?" the man asked solemnly and Gilan nodded, keenly aware of the sudden flash of fear that seemed to ripple through everyone who was within earshot.

"It'd probably be best if you start gathering everyone up and barricading them in your house like we discussed. You can sit comfortably while Horace and I do all the work and send them packing." He added the last with a smile.

That remark earned a slight chuckle from the elder, and the tension seemed to ease a little after that. The headman set off to organize his people and Gilan moved to survey the work of the villagers. The wicker mesh that had been laid carefully over the pitfall there had been covered very neatly with sand so that it looked just like the rest of the dirt road around it.

He'd had the villagers help him make it and several others like it. The wicker mesh concealed thigh deep holes in the ground. Inside the hole, in all directions, he'd embedded sharpened stakes close together, with their points angled downward. The weight of a man's body would force the foot and leg down through them, causing fairly nasty scrapes and cuts—but they'd badly impale their legs if they tried to pull out to get free, rather like how the barbs on an arrow worked. It would effectively trap anyone who got caught in them. They were placed in strategic locations all along the village main street.

Gilan nodded approvingly at the workers and they took that as their cue to leave and head to the headman's home. After he checked to make certain that the village was secure, and the people out of harm's way, he went to the north entrance to meet up with Horace.

Horace stood tensely at his post, his hand clenched tightly around the hilt of his sword in nervous anticipation of the bandit's imminent arrival. Vaguely, he realized that his hand was already slick with sweat and he wiped it on his pant leg. It was just as he was doing this that he caught sight of the rough looking men as they broke through the tree-line. The bandits had arrived.

"Not a very pretty bunch, are they?" A voice came softly from beside him.

Horace jumped, reaching instinctively for his sword until he recognized Gilan, leaning casually on his longbow. He hadn't heard him approach. He returned Gilan's smile only faintly.

"No, they aren't," he agreed.

"You ready?" Gilan asked then, his expression turning serious, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the scraggily line of men that were steadily approaching their position.

Horace nodded, keeping his eyes fixed on the enemy. There were thirteen of them, just as the elder had said. They mostly were a raggedy looking bunch. Only two had boiled leather breastplates, one had gambeson shirt and, the one that he suspected was the leader, had a shirt of lightly rusted chainmail and a simple conical helmet. Most all the men carried variations of swords, spears, axes, and clubs. Only one had a longbow. Horace unsung his shield from where he'd hung it on his back and fixed it to his arm before loosening his sword in its scabbard.

"Ready," he said, and now that the moment of battle was upon him, paradoxically, he felt much of the earlier tension fading away until it was nothing more than background noise—after all, this was what he'd been trained for.

Gilan only nodded as he kept his eyes on the approaching enemy, an arrow ready to be drawn back on the string of his bow. He waited until the men were only about nine meters from his position before he lifted the weapon and brought it to full draw.

"I think that's far enough," he said in a voice that could almost have been taken as amiable, were it not for the bow that he had leveled at them.

The men stopped moving forwards, looks of surprise or contempt on their faces. One of the latter, the one in chainmail, stepped forwards.

"And who're you supposed to be?" he asked Gilan, sneeringly.

"I'm the one the villagers hired to protect them—seemed they weren't really pleased with your _efforts_."

"And you think that you and that _boy_ ," he gestured at Horace, "can stop us?"

"Only if we have to," Gilan shrugged. "You could always just turn around and walk away—or, better yet, surrender. "

"All of us, surrender to you?" the bandit laughed and then gestured to his men to move forward. "Take this idiot," he ordered, drawing his sword.

The one archer in the group was in the process of raising his bow to shoot when Gilan's arrow found him. He fell back with a cry. Gilan and Horace, as they had planned, turned and ran down the main street of the village. Horace was vaguely aware of the sound of the men pursuing them. But most of his attention was devoted to watching exactly where it was that he put his feet, and trying to keep in step with Gilan. As if in answer to his caution, he became aware of several of the bandit's battle cries change suddenly in pitch and tone to something more along the line of pain and fear as they found Gilan's traps. Gilan and Horace didn't look back, but instead skidded around a slight bend in the road and waited.

Gilan still had his bow out and Horace saw him draw three arrows from his quiver, knocking one and holding the other two in the fingers of his draw hand. Horace, expecting the bandits to round the bend right behind them, took a ready stance and drew his sword. Gilan's traps, however, must have slowed the men a little because there was a short pause before their ragged line rounded the bend. As soon as they did, Horace saw immediately that their numbers had dropped from twelve to seven. Then those numbers thinned even further as Gilan let three arrows fly. His holding them in his fingers saved him the time of drawing them individually from his quiver. Three more bandits fell in rapid succession. Then the charging men were too close for Gilan's bow to be of use anymore.

He cast the weapon aside in favor of his sword and then moved ahead of Horace, effectively taking the attention of the majority of the four men that were left. One man, however, slipped past him. Horace found himself face to face with that man and his heavy cudgel. The man lunged forwards, his club raised in a vicious downward swing that would have crushed Horace's skull had it connected. For the briefest of moments, the vicious brutality of the assault scattered Horace's thoughts.

Then his year of training kicked in. Instead of leaping back or to the side, he moved forwards, flicking his sword up to catch the heavy cudgel at the start of it downward arc, close to the grip. It flew from the bandit's grasp and landed with a dull thud beside them. Horace, throughout this time, hadn't stopped moving forwards into the bandit. They were nearly toe to toe when he reversed the motion of his arm to send the pommel of his sword crashing into the bandit's head.

The man crumpled to the ground and Horace quickly switched his attention to the sounds of combat, his sword upraised and ready to face any other nearby bandits. He was just in time to see Gilan facing the last remaining two. His eyes widened slightly. Gilan seemed a blur of motion. Every parry, thrust, and slash was perfectly timed, economical, and positioned. His sword always seemed to be effortlessly in the right spot. Horace could see no gaps at all in his defense. He was never off balance, as he cut through the bandit's defenses like a hot knife through butter. Horace had never seen anything like it. The last two went down in quick succession.

"Horace?" Gilan asked as he surveyed the bandits and then spared a quick glance at the five who had gotten stuck in the pitfalls—checking to make sure that all immediate threats were passed before lowering his guard.

"I'm alright," Horace called back. Gilan, as soon as he was certain they were in no immediate danger, turned back to Horace, his eyes flicking over him in a quick once-over as if to be certain Horace was indeed unharmed. Then he smiled broadly at him.

"You handled yourself pretty well from what I saw," he said mildly.

But Horace, who was still a little overawed by what he'd seen, shook his head slightly. He'd expected that Gilan, being the son of a knight, would have decent combat skills—but he hadn't been expecting this. It certainly wasn't for want of sword skills that had kept Gilan from becoming a knight, he thought then.

"Not half so well as you," he said pointedly, with a rueful smile.

Gilan shrugged. "My three weren't all that skilled."

He moved to set about securing the fallen bandits. But Horace wasn't quite ready to dismiss the subject, or the woodsman's skills with a blade that easily.

"May I ask where you learned your swordsmanship? I've never seen anything like it."

"From an old northerner," Gilan replied cheerfully, and then added, "You might go knock on the headman's door and tell them that it's safe to come out again."

Horace, though not entirely satisfied with Gilan's answer, nodded and sheathed his sword before setting off.

A short while later found both of them standing before the elder's home, waiting as the village headman brought out their promised reward—a full pouch of coins. They chinked slightly as he handed them to Gilan.

The woodsman took the purse and weighed it in one hand before he opened it, rifling through the contents. He selected out several coins and passed the still quite full leather bag back to the village elder, before pocketing the money he had selected.

"But, Sir, you've only taken a quarter of what we agreed," the elder said, confused.

"I think your village has encountered enough bandits for a while," Gilan said amiably. "Your families need it more than me."

"But—"the man began to protest again and then wondered why he was even arguing the point. His people did indeed need the money. He studied Gilan for a moment as if to make sure he was serious. Then he nodded and tucked the pouch into his own waistband when he was satisfied.

"Well, at least let us offer you and your friend some supper, and give you some food for your journey," the man said then. "Please, allow us to do something for you in return."

Gilan smiled at him and nodded. "Now that's an offer I can't turn down. Thank you."

 **~x~X~x~**

Horace sat on a log that had been placed on the edge of the village center. An empty bowl rested beside him and he sighed contentedly, feeling full first time in a long time. The villagers had prepared a variable feast and the celebrations had lasted for hours already. In front of him, the bonfire and lanterns burned brightly, the foot tapping sound of a reel calling out into the night.

Horace smiled faintly as he saw Gilan get pulled into another dance, this time with a pretty young dark-haired woman who seemed around his age. Horace had been taken part in a few such dances himself over the course of the night and his feet were already sore. Gilan, however, seemed not to mind at all as the smiling lady tried to teach him the steps to another of their country dances. Soon both of them were laughing. In fact, most of the villagers that he could see seemed happy—even the elder's son.

Horace however, had too much to think about to enjoy the merriment as fully as he might have. He frowned, and then forced a smile when Gilan, who had finally managed to escape the dancers, sat down beside him.

"So then, off to Aspiene Castle tomorrow?" he asked, "We'll have to make a stop off at the garrison before we head there though. It's a fair way to Aspiene castle from where we are, and I've no interest in babysitting our friends the whole way." He gestured towards one of the village sheds that currently was housing the bound bandits.

Horace gave him a slightly distracted half-smile and shrugged in answer to his question.

"Having second thoughts? Gilan asked him.

Horace started to shake his head, but then thought better of it and shrugged again. "Maybe? It's just that, after seeing all this," he gestured to the celebrating villagers, "I'm not as certain about hiring myself out to a garrison as I was… I'm not sure anymore… not sure if…" he trailed making a helpless gesture with his hands

"Then there's a simple question you need to ask yourself," Gilan said gently. "What is it that _you_ want?"

Horace frowned; it had been a long time since anyone had cared enough to ask him that, a long time since he'd thought to ask himself that. He wanted… He looked back at the merrymakers around him, the happy families, and at all the things he could have named in answer to that question: good food and good company, a place to belong. But there was something else niggling in the back of his mind, something he been trying hard not to let himself ponder ever since they'd defeated the bandits, and he'd seen what Gilan could do with a sword, seen how much they'd helped the people of this village. He looked up at Gilan, hesitant to voice his thoughts. What if he said no, or worse, laughed at him. He clenched his fists.

"Horace?" Gilan prompted, "I can't help you if you don't let me know what's going on inside that head of yours."

Though his words were teasing, they were earnest. It was enough for Horace to shake off the small moment of doubt and just ask. After all, in his opinion, it was best to be straightforward and honest. Getting no for an answer would be better than never asking, and never knowing after all.

"I want to learn how to do this," he said finally, gesturing at the celebrating village. Then he added in a rush, "And I would really like to learn swordsmanship from you, Sir." And now that it was out in the open, he felt he needed to prove his case. "I won't be dead weight; I can fight. I'm good with a sword. I can ride and joust. I know how to use polearm weapons. I can read, write, and do sums. I'm a fast learner; I'll follow your orders, and will work hard if you teach me. I'll—"

He stopped abruptly when Gilan raised a hand to cut him short, and felt that now familiar dull ache of pain in his chest as he became certain that the woodsman was about to tell him no. He was taken by surprise, then, when he heard what Gilan had to say.

"I've seen what you're capable of," Gilan said slowly, composing his words carefully because the last thing he wanted was to hurt the boy—but there were things that needed saying. "And I would be glad of your company and your help… but, Horace, the life I lead isn't safe, it isn't glamorous. I have no permanent home. I move around constantly and I'm almost always in danger. I sleep rough—live rough. It's often hard and uncomfortable, and it can get you injured or killed more easily than not. Are you certain that that's what you really want? You'd be far safer and more comfortable working with the garrison."

Horace thought about it for a moment. But if Gilan thought that what he said might deter him, he was wrong—Horace was aware of the risks, and to him, even the thoughts of hard living, injury and even death seemed better than what he'd been doing before: wandering alone with no purpose, and better than what the garrison could offer him.

"I'm sure," Horace said decisively.

Gilan sucked in a breath, as if he intended to launch another counterargument, before he seemed to shrug. He glanced sidelong at Horace, his mouth tilting up at the corners.

"Why not?" he said finally, holding out a hand. Horace clasped it eagerly, feeling a great weight seem to lift off of his shoulders. As Horace looked back at the villagers, he was certain he had made the right decision. They lapsed into a comfortable silence until a question occurred to him.

"Can I ask you something?" Horace began, and when Gilan nodded he continued, "Why exactly _do_ you do this?"

Gilan grinned. "As I told you before, it pays well."

Horace shook his head slightly a faint smile on his lips. Despite what Gilan said, he knew he wasn't really in it for the money. If he was, he would have taken the entire pouch of coins. He only took just enough to sustain himself, his horse, and now Horace himself. The respect and approval that he'd felt when Gilan first told him what it was that he did those few days ago, started to come back a little.

"You didn't take all what the villagers offered you," he pointed out and Gilan nodded.

But then all that sudden re-kindling and surge of admiration and respect was shattered for a second time that week as soon as Gilan opened his mouth to speak.

"Only because I didn't have to," he said airily, brushing his hand to the side. "I'll be paid that much again when I drop our bandits off at the garrison. Several of them have bounties on their heads, you know."

Horace looked up at him incredulously. "You're going to get paid twice for the same job? And you're not even going to tell them that the villagers already paid you?"

Gilan only gave a vulture-like smile in response to Horace's scandalized tone. "Of course not; that's not good business sense."

Horace leveled another of his disapproving looks and him, but Gilan only laughed.

"Remember what I said about empty purses—especially if you're going to be tagging along with me. You probably ate half the banquet on your own."

"It wasn't that much," Horace shot back, the picture of injured dignity.

 **~x~X~x~**

Will made his way along the streets of the village of Bawtry. He was so lost in thought that he nearly bumped into a woman and dropped the sack of supplies he had been sent to town to get for Dorian. He just managed to catch them, and hastily apologized to the woman before hurrying on his way. It had been four days, and Will still had not managed to come up with any solid ideas as to what to do about the slaver problem.

He had thought to tell some of the other members of the Watch about the slavers and their captain's treachery. But then he had started to wonder: what if it wasn't just Frederick who was in on the scheme? What if other members of the Watch were in on it? He'd decided that it wasn't safe to try to alert the other Watch members. He couldn't tell anyone in the village because he knew that nobody would believe him that Captain Fredrick was selling them out to slavers. Most of the people looked up to Fredrick and the Watch. Whereas Will was basically a nobody, and a young boy on top of that.

He had then thought of traveling the distance to Aspiene Castle and trying to get the Baron and his knights to send help. But that option came with a different set of problems. The first was the question of whether or not he could get the Baron and his knights to believe him. As he'd pointed out earlier, he was just an orphaned peasant boy. It would be his word against that of an appointed Watch member, and Will didn't have any concrete proof or evidence to back his word. Even if he managed to convince them and get them to come, there was still the question as to whether or not he could get there and back in time. Aspiene Castle was all the way on the other side of the fief. Will wasn't sure he could get there, convince the knights, and get back before captain Frederick's Spring Festival—when the slavers were due to attack.

The best he could think to do was finding some way to stop or disrupt and disperse the Spring Festival. That way the people wouldn't all be in one place and such an easy mark when the slavers attacked. But he had no solid idea yet of exactly how he could do that. All he knew was he had to try something.

He moved the sack to spread its weight more evenly as he continued down the road, trying desperately to think of something he could do. He was just about level with the tavern when two foresters exited. The two men were deep in conversation and, close as Will was, he couldn't help but overhear.

"Let me get this straight, you're sayin' that two sell-swords took on twenty men and won?"

"That's how my cousin tells it," The other man replied. "Saved their village from the bandit gang that's been plundering them for a year now. But that's not all; my cousin says that they didn't even take half of the promised price offered them. Then I heard, just two days ago, they helped keep a farmer who was trying to get his goods to the market at Hawley from being robbed on the road. Folks round these parts have started taking to calling them the Commoner's Knights on account of it all."

"And where're they now?"

"Last I heard, still in Hawley, lookin' for work."

"Well, I say good on them. We could do with more like them out 'n about."

The two men soon turned a corner and changed the topic. Will had been unconsciously keeping pace behind them, listening intently, eyes wide. Two men, taking on twenty bandits and winning? And they were swords for hire, but decent ones from what Will had heard—especially if folk were calling them the Commoner's Knights. The wheels of his mind had already started turning. Hawley was only about half a day away on foot; he'd helped Dorian take his goods to the market there for sale before. Maybe he could go there and find these knights and…. His shoulders slumped slightly as he realized that he'd need to find a way to pay them, even if he did find them.

His thoughts flew suddenly to his little cedar box that contained all the money he had saved to try to get into Battleschool, to the years he'd spent doing extra work and sometimes skipping meals for the sake of keeping a coin. That money was his only way of getting out of the life of a farmer, of reaching his dream.

Then he looked at a mother leading her children down the street, saw a young man and his lover walking hand in hand, and thought of Helen, the elderly herbalist who was like a grandmother to him. If what those two foresters said was true, then he had a real chance at saving the people of this village. When he looked at it that way, there wasn't even a choice.

Finally having decided on a plan, he headed back to Dorian's farm at a fairly quick pace. As soon as he had dropped off the supplies, he gathered his meager belongings and sneaked off towards the forest, intent on fetching his coins. There was no time to lose.

* * *

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading! Feedback, as always is always very appreciated. Leave a review if you've a mind to. Let me know if I can improve. Sorry if this chapter seemed a little slow or boring, I really had to set some things up for future chapters/events. Since I'm on break, I'm really going to try to get the next chapter out sooner (and also see if I can get some of my planned/partially drafted short stories out as well). Wish me luck XD

I wish you all the best until next time!


	9. Chapter 8

**A/N:** Happy New Year Everyone! (That is, if you celebrate New Year on the first of January—as opposed to celebrating it according to the lunar calendar) X) Here's the next chapter. It's a little on the long side, but I had a lot I needed to get out before I moved on to the next one, so I hope you all don't mind, and that it proves to be enjoyable anyway XD. Thanks so much for reading!

 **Guest:** Thank you for the reviews! I'm glad to hear you like it so far X)

 **TrustTheCloak:** Thanks so much for the review! It made my day to read. I'm glad you liked the fight scene, I'm always a little worried about getting those right so I'm glad it turned out okay. To answer your question, yes, for the most part it's only Halt who remembers everything. Also, there'll be more about Gilan's past in the chapter after next if all goes well. Thanks again!

 **jaymzNshed** : Thanks so much for the review and the compliment, I really appreciate it. There will definitely be some beating up of slavery in this chapter XD

 **Dragonslover98:** Thanks for the review and the encouragement! Hopefully this next chapter will turn out alright and bring about a few of those points you mentioned XD Thanks again!

 **WisperRanger26:** Awwww :3 Thanks so much for the compliment and the review: it was really encouraging and I appreciate it.

 **helloyesimhere:** Thanks for the review, and for the compliment, It really means a lot and made my day to read :D

* * *

 **Chapter 8**

 **~x~X~x~**

 _A Couple Years Previous_

 **~x~X~x~**

 _It was cold outside, winter having just started to settle into the land. The rag that was being pressed against his swollen and split lip was also cold. But none of that was as cold as the feeling that had settled into his chest._

 _"He just got so angry," Will found himself saying. It was as if someone had broken a dam, the water flowing out past the point of stopping. "And then he just hit me," he finished miserably. He looked up despite the dark cold hurt settling into his chest and into the warm sympathetic eyes of Helen as she finished cleaning the cut. Her old lined face was soft with concern._

 _"I'm so sorry Will," she told him gently, pulling him into a comforting hug._

 _He was such a bright, friendly and sweet boy. He deserved more than this life. But she lacked the means and the ability to help him get out. There was very little that she could do for him other than give him a safe place for a few moments, and all support and care that Dorian and his family should be giving him but weren't. She couldn't help but shake her head as she moved off, looking for a specific herbal paste to help the cut to mend. Her mind wasn't as sharp as it used to be lately and that often led to her forgetting exactly where she put certain items. She was still rooting around for it when he said something that made her heart sink._

 _"Did I deserve it?" he asked in a small hesitant voice._

 _She turned and looked sharply at him. He was sitting with his head down, hands clenched in his lap and legs swinging slightly as they were too short to reach the ground from the chair he was perched on. Her hands clasped around the jar she sought and she moved towards him. She cupped his face gently in her hands as she tended the cut and the two other bruises while she struggled to frame the right words to say in response._

 _"Sometimes people can be cruel and harm those that they care about," she said finally, "when they lose themselves in anger or hurt. But that doesn't make it right, mind you. You didn't deserve that Will. Everyone makes mistakes when they are learning something new and difficult. If Dorian is a decent man, and if he has half a mind's worth of sense, he'll realize this when he's calmed down—realize he's also made a pretty big mistake and never do it again. He was the one in the wrong, not you." She paused and then added, "And, Will, if he ever flies into a rage like that again, know that my door is always open to you."_

 _The aroma of the biscuits she'd set to cook started to fill the air and she smiled. "I think they're ready, don't you?"_

 _He sniffed the air and smiled too as he agreed._

 _"Why don't you help me put some honey over the tops of them and then we'll sit down and eat," she said, in an attempt to distract him from his dark thoughts and pain. It worked for he smiled eagerly, hopping off his chair to help lend a hand._

 _About a half an hour later, Will sat at her small table near the fire of the stove and across from her, warm sticky honey covering his fingers, his stomach pleasantly full, and the stringing on his face subsiding to a barely noticeable ache. Warm food, warm fire, and warm company seemed finally to chase all that cold away—at least for a while._

 **~x~X~x~**

 _Present Day_

 **~x~X~x~**

It had been a couple of days since Horace had become… well, sort of Gilan's apprentice, he supposed. It hadn't exactly been what he'd expected. He'd expected Gilan to teach him mostly swordsmanship or tactics. But Gilan had had him do many other things as well—things that Horace often found a little odd, until Gilan explained the reasoning behind them. Chief amongst these were strange agility exercises, menial tasks, as well as the occasional request to think about something and to, more often than not, _"pay attention, look around you_ ". There had been many times over the past few days when Gilan had pointed out several things that Horace had missed or brushed over because he'd thought them inconsequential.

 _"It's often noticing the little things that helps keep you alive,"_ Gilan had told him often. _"You'd be surprised at what you can find out if you pay attention. Information is something that you can use to your advantage, no matter the situation."_

That last was something the young knight had been trying to take to heart, mostly because he'd been trying hard to prove himself a worthy student. He really wanted to get it right. In an attempt to practice, he had started trying to pay attention more closely to the things around him. For the past couple days, he'd even been he been testing out this technique on Gilan.

To his surprise, he had actually learned a few things about him. He had a few peculiar habits that Horace had noticed. For a wanderer, he was surprisingly clean and took care over his appearance. He was always clean shaven and fairly well groomed. His attention to tidiness went past his appearance too. He also always kept a well organized and neat kit… In fact, that was something that he had a bit of a non-budging stance on, Horace thought a little ruefully.

Generally, Gilan let Horace be, leaving him free to make his own decisions in regards to himself. This consequently had led to Horace deciding to ignore his own kit: partially because he no longer saw the need, and partially in slight rebellion to the Battleschool that had kicked him out.

But Gilan had shown him the fault in that the next morning when he had shouted that they were under attack before Horace had woken fully for the day.

Disoriented, Horace had jerked awake, fumbling blindly through his kit for the things he needed in order to help fight back. He had ended up knocking himself and his kit over and had been frantically scrabbling for his things when he'd heard the sound of Gilan's laughter. Horace had stopped fumbling and looked up to see the woodsman leaning against a tree, grinning at the mess that Horace had made, and at his position: lying face down in the dirt and covered by his things. Horace had reddened at what he thought to be a very stupid and pointless joke.

"That's not funny!" he'd protested. "You made me think that we were really under attack!"

"Good," Gilan said, still grinning. "Learn anything?" he'd asked then, innocently.

Horace had lain there, blank-faced for a moment until Gilan had moved away from the tree and gestured to his spilled gear.

"If there really were a bandit, he could have happily run you through while you were tripping over and tangling yourself up in, your own gear."

Horace had flushed again as he'd realized that Gilan was right, that the strict attention knight's had on orderly kits did have a worthy purpose other than making the lives of cadets miserable.

"You're right, Sir," he'd admitted quietly, but then had added with some heat, "You could have just told me!"

"Could have," Gilan had nodded solemnly but then had been unable to keep the smile from his face, "But it wouldn't have been half as amusing."

Horace shook his head and sighed at the memory before switching his attention back to Gilan who was bent over his cook pot, which he had hung over their campfire, trying to cook them breakfast.

"Would you like to try?" Gilan offered mildly from where he was adding the chopped vegetables in with the sizzling meat. Horace was taken slightly aback by the suggestion.

"Me, cook? But that's peasant woman's work," he said off-handedly.

Gilan looked up from the frying pan and offered Horace a coy smile as he batted his eyelashes. "Why Horace," he said airily, "I'm flattered you noticed."

As he said it, Horace flushed, realizing that what he had said could easily be perceived as offensive—in more ways than one. He really hadn't thought very hard about it before he'd spoken, and he already regretted that.

"What I mean is that it's usually peasant woman's work…" he tried to blunder his way through it, though he stopped as he met Gilan's steady, now blank-faced, gaze and raised eyebrow. "Isn't it?" he finished lamely, gesturing ineffectually with his free hand, his face burning.

"Why don't we ask a peasant woman?" Gilan said, still blank-faced, sarcasm tingeing his words. "I'm sure I saw several lurking in the bushes and trees yesterday."

Horace flushed further, catching the point; in their position, it hardly mattered if it was peasant woman's work or not. If they couldn't cook, they wouldn't eat, he realized.

Gilan smiled at him then, shaking his head slightly. "It's a good skill to know, especially when you live like we do. Besides that, there are many men in this kingdom, and a few women from noble or merchant families, who are cooks and chefs for the Barons or for restaurants, you know."

Horace nodded, a little sheepishly. "I get it: any skill you can learn is a good one."

"Glad you agree," Gilan said brightly, passing him a knife and a couple of the cloves of wild garlic he had found that morning. "Chop that into really small pieces, would you."

Horace took the knife and cloves and smiled ruefully, finding a flat rock to use as a chopping board and applying himself to the task.

"Garlic is usually something you add last," Gilan said cheerfully. "It cooks very fast; if you add it too soon, you'll burn it."

Horace nodded, his expression now one of extreme seriousness and concentration as he watched and listened attentively. Gilan had to turn away slightly to hide a smile.

After only a slightly burned breakfast, courtesy of Horace's most valiant attempts at cooking, another swordsmanship lesson, and after Horace had finally finished cleaning up the chainmail and helm he'd gotten from the lead bandit from the village they'd saved, they left the woods and headed back to the small town of Hawley. Gilan had it in mind to check there one last time for any job opportunities. Since there'd been no bounty notices or mercenary contracts, that meant that they'd be heading to the tavern to see if they could overhear anything that might be profitable, Horace had learned.

 **~x~X~x~**

Will swept his gaze across the tavern for a third time, frowning. All the people he'd talked to in this town had directed him to this particular tavern when he'd asked about the Commoner's Knights. He chewed thoughtfully on his lip as he tried to decide what to do.

Ahead of him, sitting at a table, was a tall slim man around twenty or so. Across from him was a youth who appeared to be about Will's own age. The younger one said something after taking a sip from his tankard and the older one laughed only to be joined by the younger one.

Will's hand closed around the satchel that held his precious coin purse. He hesitated for about the tenth time since he'd come in. By all the descriptors that he'd been given when he'd asked, these two were the closest match to the two he sought. The problem was that they fit nothing with the mental picture he'd built up. When he'd heard them called the Commoner's Knights, he'd expected them to look like how he often pictured his father: Burly men immaculately dressed in glittering armor. And, by the descriptions, the older one would be wearing a hooded green surcoat.

The older one was wearing a green hooded surcoat, true. But he looked more like a forester than a knight and he was, as Will had thought earlier, slim of build. The younger looked to have more of the build of a knight. But, aside from a chainmail shirt, and a simple conical helmet that was placed on the table near him, he had no armor at all, and his clothing was very travel-worn. All in all, neither were the least bit knightly. Also, the way they behaved was different than he'd expected. He had thought that they'd be older men, disciplined, and serious. Their lighthearted conversation and manner had taken him by surprise. He wasn't entirely certain that he'd found the right people.

Then he looked at the older one again, watching as he laughed and joked with the younger one. He seemed friendly enough. Decided, Will stepped forwards towards their table.

The older one noticed Will coming towards their table immediately and turned his attention towards him. He looked a question at Will. Will returned the friendly looking smile on his face, and continued forward until they were only steps apart.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the younger one looking at him too. Though, his look was a little on the scathing side. Will couldn't help but feel a little self-conscious at that. He knew he probably looked more than a little ragged. His clothes were very worn and too small for him. Making certain that Will had clothes that were nice and fit well wasn't usually one of Dorian's top priorities.

However, Will was distracted a little from this thought when the older one spoke. "Is there something I can do for you, young fellow?" he asked cheerfully as soon as Will was close enough to hear him clearly over the bustle and clatter of the tavern.

"Maybe?" Will said and then blurted, "Are you two the Commoner's Knights?"

His heart sank when both of them looked surprised or confused at the question.

"You're not them are you?" Will said then, the dread slowly morphing into desperation and fear. If he couldn't find the Commoner's Knights and convince them to help, his whole village would be destroyed. The slavers would attack and all the people would be taken—including Helen. And it would all be Will's fault because he hadn't been able to stop it. His breathing sped up slightly even as his heart started to pound. He can't have traveled all this way just to fail now. He felt an uncomfortable stinging sensation prickling at his eyes.

The older one, obviously picking up on Will's nearly palpable distress, spoke again, gesturing to seat at their table.

"Why don't you sit down," he said, his tone turning surprisingly gentle, and then added, "Maybe if you tell us about who you're looking for, we might be able to help you find them."

Will was a little taken aback by the offer and the genuine concern on their faces, but obliged none the less, grasping onto the slight hope that had just been offered. He gratefully sunk into a seat, the exhaustion brought on by his long journey and by the anxiety seeming to catch up with him all at once.

"So, who exactly are these 'Commoner's Knights' of yours?" the older one asked then.

Will nodded, finding his voice. "They're two sell swords," he began, "and they just recently saved a village from bandits—and they helped keep an old man from being robbed on his way to the market here in Hawley."

He saw both of them look at each other. This time, it was the younger one who spoke.

"We were actually the ones who did that," he said carefully.

"But we've never been called Commoner's Knights before to my knowledge," the older one finished, grinning as he obviously found the name amusing. Then he held out his hand to Will. "Name's Gilan, and this," he pointed to his young companion, "this is Horace."

 **~x~X~x~**

It was the very next morning and the dawn of the Spring Festival that found Will standing in the fringe of the woods that overlooked the open space where the celebrations were to be held. Beside him stood both Gilan and Horace, armed and ready for a fight.

Gilan had listened with unguarded interest when Will had explained about how he had found out about the slavers and about the treachery of the Watch Commander. There were even a few times that Will thought that the warrior had looked at him with something similar to… was it approval, perhaps? The younger one, Horace, had mostly only been interested when Will described the slavers, their numbers, and the weaponry that they had that he could remember. Will, for his part, had just been happy that they'd listened instead of dismissing him outright.

In the end, Gilan had accepted his offer of coins and had followed him all the way back to Bawtry. By the time they'd arrived, there was only about an hour or so before the festival was due to start. Horace and Gilan had made a quick and rough sort of camp near Will's hollow oak. It was there that they had discussed their options and rough plans for the upcoming fight before they headed to the woods around the clearing where the festival was already getting started.

Although he'd only known Gilan for a very short time, there was something about him that Will found himself liking. After Will's initial disappointment had worn off, it had very quickly been replaced with sort of awe. He had consequently, been a little nervous and self-conscious around him when they'd first set off. Gilan's manner, however, had put him at ease very quickly. He also seemed to know exactly what he was about—Horace too—Will found himself thinking. He was almost certain that they would have a chance now.

As Will watched from his concealed position, he could see that people were flocking steadily to the open space, setting up stalls and tables of ale and food. There were even some of the village musicians setting out and tuning their instruments to play. Everyone seemed extremely happy and relaxed—completely oblivious to the danger that Will knew awaited them. He felt a pang at the thought, though that was quickly overshadowed by determination. Will looked up, bringing his focus back to Gilan as he spoke.

"Now that I see the way it's all being set up, I'm thinking that Will here was right when he thought that it would be a good idea to keep the people from sticking so closely together. A good way of keeping them from being rounded up would be to start some sort of diversion in the center of the grounds to drive the people away." He chewed thoughtfully on a thumbnail as he considered. "A fire is always good for that," he said finally. "I could try to find some way to set that cart of straw on fire. It's close enough to the tables and stalls to cause an uproar."

"Maybe I should be the one to do it," Will found himself blurting before he'd thought it through completely. He cleared his throat a little nervously, feeling his face heat up when he saw both mercenaries' eyes focused on him. Horace's look seemed doubtful and a touch scathing, but Gilan seemed surprised and perhaps even open. It gave Will the confidence he needed to hurry on. "I mean, if you're seen, they'll know you're an outsider and be suspicious of you. But I'm a familiar face and most people are used to ignoring me."

"Gil's really good a moving around quietly and without being seen," Horace said immediately in defense of his friend.

"I am," Gilan said simply, and Will found himself believing him instantly—mostly because his words were without the slightest hint of pride or boasting. "But it'll be hard here," Gilan added. "There's almost no cover and, as Will said, it's a small village. Everyone knows everybody else. I was thinking that I'd either have to use fire arrows or have Horace here ride in with an obvious diversionary attack. But both of those reveal us and our position. If you are certain you can do it, Will, then I'm willing to let you give it a shot." He met Will's gaze searching until Will nodded seriously.

"I want to help," Will said earnestly and Gilan inclined his head.

"Just make certain that you hurry back here as soon as you light the fire. I might need you to help point out the slavers if things start to get confused." He reached into his kit and then handed Will flint, tinder, and a small flask of cooking wine to help the fire get started faster. Will took it and was about to move forwards when Gilan stopped him.

"Best wait a while, Will. If you set it too early, they'll just put it out and everyone will come back before the slavers strike. We need to try and time it just before the slavers make their move. You two stay here and I'll scout the tree line to see if I can't spot them coming."

With that, Gilan left, seeming to melt away into the trees; Horace really hadn't been lying Will found himself thinking as he watched, or rather tired to watch, him go. The two boys stayed put, crouching behind some low scrubs and watching as the festival began to take full swing. The waiting seemed like hours to Will. Already he felt his heartbeat racing in anticipation of the part he was going to play. Nerves made it so that neither he nor Horace spoke. Will also wasn't quite certain of what to think about the big muscular boy, and that made it even more awkward.

Finally, Gilan returned and signaled to them both. He had them back up into the deeper shadows of the trees before they rose fully. Gilan pointed to a few places on the fringe of the woodland about ninety degrees opposite to where they stood. As they watched, they could just make out traces of movement as, whom Will guessed were the slavers, congregated in preparation for their attack.

"It looks like they'll be mobilizing soon," Gilan said simply, his expression serious.

"Very soon," Horace said, pointing towards the southern end of the festival. "While you were gone, I watched the Watch Captain approach all his men and send them off towards the south end of the field, away from the villagers. They'll be undefended."

Both Will and Gilan followed the direction he indicated and saw that he was right.

"Good eye," Gilan said approvingly and Horace beamed at the praise. Gilan turned to Will then. "Now would be a good time to light that fire." He said, placing an encouraging hand on Will's shoulder. "That is, if you're still certain you want to do this. If you don't want to anymore, or are unsure, just say so now and we'll do something else."

"I can do this," Will said decisively and Gilan nodded in answer, believing him. That boosted Will's confidence enough to start moving forward. Before he could talk himself out of it, Will started to make his way down and into the festival. As he was known to the villagers, nobody paid him any mind. He was able to get to the cart of hay in the middle of the grounds relatively unnoticed. He waited for a moment when nobody was looking, and then dumped Gilan's cooking wine over a section of the straw.

Heart in his mouth, he once again gave a nervous glance around. He'd done quite a few pranks in his time, but he knew that none of the villagers would consider lighting a fire a mere prank. He could get in serious trouble if he was caught, despite his reasons for doing it. He let out a short breath when he saw that nobody had noticed. He crouched in the cart's shadow and stuck the flint to steel, grounding the spark in the tinder. Once he had it, he stuck it inside the cart near where he'd poured the wine. Then he moved away quickly as the fire flared immediately to life.

Will hurried back towards where he had last seen Gilan and Horace. He was halfway there when many voices rose up in fear with the cry of: "FIRE!" Will chanced a glance behind him to see many people scattering or moving to haul their goods away from the growing blaze. He watched with satisfaction as the people moved off and split up.

Then he heard another sound that chilled his blood. A different cry went up from the northern end of the field. The slavers had started to make their move.

He arrived back with Gilan and Horace in time to see that Horace had drawn his sword and Gilan had an arrow on the string of his bow. As they had planned, Horace took up a guard position by Gilan and Will stood quickly to Gilan's other side. As one, they moved, following Gilan's directions and skirting the edge of the clearing while Gilan used his bow to pick off any slavers that he could.

During the slavers' initial charge, it was relatively easy for Gilan to discern the slavers from the villagers; most of the villagers were unarmed or fleeing the rough men, after all. However, a very small number of villagers were armed and a few of those even tried engaging the enemy. In those cases, Will helped Gilan to pick out which was which. Gilan's shooting was deadly fast and accurate, and Will couldn't help but start to feel a sense of surprised admiration. All he'd ever seen in regards to archery was foresters with small game bows. None of them were near Gilan's level of speed and accuracy.

Unfortunately, Gilan's success eventually had an adverse effect. It wasn't long until the slavers started to pick out Gilan's location by his shots. One of them broke free from the group and started towards them. Horace saw him coming and engaged him swiftly before he could reach his friend, allowing Gilan the time to pick off yet another of the slavers who was making a rush at him. Horace and the slaver, a burly unkempt man who carried a sword, traded several blows. The man swung at Horace's middle with a vicious sidecut. Horace parried the strike easily before he struck forward in a blinding fast riposte. The point of his sword sunk deep into the unkempt man's thigh. He fell to the ground with a cry, well and truly out of the fight.

By then, the Watch could no longer just stand towards the south side of the field doing nothing—even if a few of them were in with the slavers. It would be far too suspicious, especially since the tide of the battle had turned against the brigands. They charged into the midst of the remaining invaders and then the battle for the people of Bawtry was over.

 **~x~X~x~**

Will headed down the path that led to Dorian's farm at a jog, a bright smile lighting up his features. The village had been saved, Helen was safe, and Will still had a mostly full purse of coins on top of that. Gilan had only selected a couple of coins in payment. Though Will might have to save for another half a year to get enough again, it was miles better than having lost them all. His steps were light for the first time in days as he started down the dusty walk toward Dorian's home.

He'd realized he left the farm in such a rush that he hadn't told the old man anything beforehand. He knew he needed to explain himself—which was why he'd left Gilan, Horace, the Watch members, and the celebrating villagers early. He'd slipped quietly away as soon as he remembered, in the vain hope that he wouldn't be too late to explain himself to the old farmer.

Dorian was not the most understanding of men and he admittedly had a pretty bad temper, but he'd understand if Will explained himself, he was certain. And maybe, since Will had essentially saved Dorian and his farm, maybe he'd finally start seeing Will more like family and less like a simple farmhand and a burden he hadn't really wanted to inherit.

As he entered through the gate, he saw that Dorian was already out in the yard. He caught sight of Will immediately and moved in his bow-legged stride to meet him. There was a thunderous expression on his face that did not ease in the slightest as Will drew up and stopped in front of him. Will's bright smile faded a little as he saw it, and further still as he heard what the man had to say.

"I don't see what you got to be smiling about, boy, when you go skiving off without permission."

"I didn't just run off," Will started to protest but was cut short.

"I heard what you did," Dorian said, silencing him with a sharp gesture. "The whole town's talking on how ye went and hired some sellswords to fight the men that attacked us. But that don't change the fact that ye ran off without giving word."

His eyes narrowed in angry suspicion as he caught sight of the coin purse that Will still gripped in his hand. With surprising speed, he reached forward and snatched it before Will could think to react.

"And just where did you get the money ye used to pay him?" He demanded, dangling the purse that he'd taken from Will with one hand. "Stole it, what's likely—from me! There in't any other way ye could have gotten it, the farmer growled, reaching out and cuffing Will hard on the head. "An on top of that, ye go running off and leavin' yer work undone!" He struck forwards again with another blow, this one closefisted, and Will staggered back a pace in shock and pain. It had been years since Dorian had been this angry with him. "There's a good caning waiting for you boy if you keep up this kind of behavior! Now get in the barn, and don't think for a moment you'll be getting any supper tonight!"

Will stood frozen at the tirade, the dread, shock, and hurt settling in him as painfully as the blows—all his previous hopes coming crashing down. And all that hurt only added to the hurt brought on by the loss of his coins, his only chance of reaching his dreams.

"Get in the barn!" the man shouted again when Will couldn't seem to bring himself to move. Annoyed, the farmer reached forwards to strike at Will again but was stopped by a fairly quiet, yet commanding sounding voice.

"I think that's enough."

Will turned surprised to see Gilan standing there; he hadn't heard him approach. Dorian must not have either for he startled. He glanced up in surprise that turned quickly into a small amount of fear when he saw the mercenary, or more specifically, the unsettling way in which the mercenary was smiling at him, hand resting casually, but pointedly, on the sword at his hip.

Gilan must have seen him leave the celebration early and followed him, Will found himself thinking numbly. He didn't know why Gilan had done it but he was glad, in that moment, that he had—glad he was here. Although that feeling didn't last very long. Dorian's pride soon reasserted itself as it usually did. Will could tell by the way his muscles stiffened and color started coming into his cheeks.

"I'm his guardian. I decide what's best for him!" he shouted. "I'll not be havin' some sellsword tell me what's what! He pointed furiously in the direction of the barn, "Now GET!" he shouted at Will, "Or I'll be teaching you a lesson in respecting yer elders that you'll not soon forget on top of the other one!"

Will could see that the farmer, having his pride poked at and clearly angry, was building himself up for something. It had happened only one other time before and Will flinched, the unpleasant memory shaking him from his frozen moment. He started to move but turned to look back, hesitating as a calmer voice seemed to cut through the fear, anger, and tension that stretched between Will and the old farmer like a sword slashing a rope.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to, Will," Gilan said softly. "You don't have to go to the barn and you don't have to stay here with him," he jerked his head in the old angry farmer's direction, a flat dangerous look coming into his eyes as he said it and made eye contact with the farmer.

That halted Will in his tracks, but he could do nothing but throw a helpless glance Gilan's way. It wasn't exactly true. If not for this farmer, and the village, he'd have nowhere to go, nowhere to live—he'd given up his chance of finding a better life for himself the moment he'd given Gilan some of his coins to save the village, and the moment Dorian had taken the rest of them. He had nothing left, nowhere to go.

Gilan however, seemed to have read his expression as he smiled encouragingly at him.

"You can come with me and Horace if you want. I could use someone with skills like yours; you'll have a share in our profits," he offered. "And from there you can decide for yourself where you want to go and what you want to do."

Will looked hard at him for a moment, searching his face for sincerity and finding it. He glanced from the farmer and then back to Gilan—felling a confused mixture of uncertainty, hope, curiosity (perhaps even a little fear). But as he looked between Gilan and the red-faced farmer, he knew there wasn't really even a choice.

Gilan was offering him a way to earn the coin he needed. He didn't know Gilan enough to really trust him fully, but he thought he knew him enough, and knew of him enough to get a good picture of his character. Instinct told Will he was a good man. And, in Will's eyes, Gilan was already far better company and a far better person than Dorian had ever been. He took a hesitant step and then another until he was walking purposefully towards the mercenary and then stopping at his side. Try as he might, he could not muster any regret for his decision—or sympathy for Dorian.

Dorian watched Will's rebellion with an open mouth and an expression of shock that only seemed to fuel his anger further. He took a furious, if not a little wary, step towards Gilan.

"You can't do that! I'm his guardian!"

"I can't?" Gilan seemed to think about that for a moment, his expression soon turning a little crestfallen.

The farmer stepped forwards with new confidence. "That's right. You can't."

"I didn't know that you had the official paperwork that says he's your ward," Gilan admitted.

"I what?" The man looked confused. "I don't need any of yer fancy papers!"

"You do if you want to keep him," Gilan said knowingly. "Without them, there's nothing you can legally do to stop him from going wherever he will."

"I've never heard of any papers!" The man said angrily.

Gilan brightened visibly. "In that case, it looks like I can take him."

Dorian appeared almost like he was seriously considering attacking Gilan, but one look at the mercenary's ready stance made him reconsider that idea. Hitting a boy was one thing, and little trouble for him, but hitting an armed warrior was quite another. He took an uncertain step back instead. But his anger refused to let him back down.

"I-I'll tell the knights, the Baron!"

"Without those papers, they'd hardly do anything," Gilan shrugged and then his demeanor hardened even as his words softened. "Besides, last I checked, slavery is illegal in the King's Lands. If Will here tells the knights how you've been treating him. It'll be you who'll wind up in trouble."

The man looked uncertain now, and even a little fearful, he backed further away, giving in. However, he had to have the last word.

"Fine, take him! He's worthless anyway!"

Gilan said nothing, merely raised an eyebrow at him, offering him a pointed look. The silence continued for an uncomfortable moment before Gilan finally spoke.

"That's exactly why you don't deserve to have him." He took a step forwards. "I'll be having his coins back if you please," he said pleasantly—a pleasantness that didn't reach his eyes or make the grip on his sword hilt any less threatening. "You know as well as I that that money was never yours."

Cursing angrily, the farmer complied. He flung the purse to the ground. Then he snarled slightly and shot Gilan and Will one last contemptuous look before turning around and stalking back towards his home.

Will looked uncertainly up at Gilan who grinned at him, picked up his coin purse and tossed it to him before beckoning him to follow with a tilt of his head. Will followed. He had left his supplies with Gilan's and Horace's earlier that day, so there was no need for him to pack a bag.

"Hope you won't mind not working on a farm every day," the mercenary teased, but Will took him seriously.

"I'd never miss that," he said with some feeling, still reeling slightly over everything that had just happened.

Gilan laughed and continued on, Will following. They traveled out of the farmlands and were halfway through the village square when a burning question rose up in Will and he fidgeted slightly, gathering himself before he blurted.

"How did you know that he didn't have the papers?"

"Papers?" Gilan asked, confused.

Will made a helpless gesture. "The ones that say I'm his ward."

Gilan brightened with understanding and snorted slightly. "He couldn't have had them because there's no such thing."

Will's mouth dropped open in surprise. "You lied?"

Gilan shrugged, his mouth tilting up at the corners. "Seemed like the best way to deal with that whole situation."

Will thought about that for a moment before he nodded in acceptance. If Gilan hadn't lied, it might have led to a more violent encounter between him and Dorian.

For that matter, he really didn't know or understand why Gilan had offered to take him in—or even why he had decided to intervene at all in the first place. But he couldn't think of a politic way to ask—a way to ask that didn't sound like he was having second thoughts. Eventually, he settled on asking the next best thing.

"Um…Gilan," he asked tentatively, "did you mean it?"

"The lie?" Gilan asked, sounding puzzled.

But Will shook his head. "No, about me having skills that you could use?"

Gilan nodded seriously. "Wouldn't have said it otherwise."

Will nodded and then shifted slightly before daring to venture. "What…what are they, exactly?"

"You're intelligent, curious, and good at moving around without being noticed, those are all very useful skills for someone in my line of work."

"Well, that's alright then." Will seemed content with that answer. Then he asked another question. "Gilan?"

"Yes?" Gilan answered, a smile touching the corners of his mouth and one eyebrow raised in a look of tolerant amusement.

"Before we go, could I maybe say goodbye to Helen. She's like a grandmother to me and one of my only friends here. She actually helped me earn a lot of that money."

"Of course," Gilan said seriously. "Take all the time you need. You remember where Horace and I made camp?" When Will nodded, he added, "You can meet us there."

Later that night, as Will sat around their campfire, he began to wonder if his earlier thoughts were wrong: that he hadn't given up his chance at a better life when he'd sought out Gilan and Horace and given them his money—rather, he just might have gained it.

 **~x~X~x~**

The sun had set almost an hour ago. Evanlyn stood on the eastern edge of the cliffs that lined either side of the bay. The sea seemed to shimmer and crawl as moonlight reflected off of the rolling waves about thirty meters below her. She watched the grizzled… former Ranger, or perhaps just Ranger… she supposed, trying a length of rope to a sturdy piece of rock that jutted from the cliff face.

She swallowed hard. She wasn't exactly certain that she really approved of his idea. But, considering the number of Deparnieux's men that he had seen when he'd scouted the port town, she knew that this was probably the only way to get them out of Gallica quickly and without notice. And for that, she was more than willing to try.

Halt turned to her and offered her a pointed look that plainly asked if she was ready. She nodded once in answer.

"Remember to stay close and follow my lead as soon as we get into the water."

She nodded again. Then they were off. Halt tugged once on the rope to ensure it was secure before he tied two fairly substantial logs to the free end. Then he lowered the ropes and logs over the edge of the cliff before climbing down himself.

Evanlyn looked over the cliff edge, squinting against the dark, trying to use the faint sliver of moonlight to see the distance. She needed to know if Halt had made it to the water. So far as she could make out, he had.

Knowing it was time, she carefully made her way over the edge of the cliff and took a sturdy hold on the rope. She wrapped it around her arm to give her more purchase and control as she started to lower herself, meter by heart-pumping meter. It burned her arm a little sometimes, but she didn't dwell on that. Instead, she concentrated only on her decent, knowing well that a wrong move could be fatal. She had never really been a conventional sort of princess and was familiar with using a rope like this, so she wasn't too far out of her depth.

Soon the sound of lapping waves grew considerably louder. Not long after that, she felt the shockingly cold wet of the water as she reached the sea. She gasped, the chill temperature causing her to release her grip so that she landed with an ungainly splash. Gasping again, she tread water, cursing softly as she tried to get a hold on the rocks of the cliff face. In the moonlight, she could just make out the Ranger's grim face as he clung to the cliff face not a meter from her. His eyebrows rose.

"Interesting choice of language," he said dryly, "almost as interesting as the landing."

Despite the cold Evanlyn flushed. She only just managed to bite her tongue before she said anything thing else unfitting of a royal heir such as: _"Oh, shut up."_

She watched as he reached for the rope and united the two logs. He passed her one and she accepted it, letting go of the cliff face to that she could take hold of it with both hands.

The logs were large enough to help them stay afloat but small enough so that they could be easily pushed ahead of them as they swam. They were also big enough for them to duck their heads behind. This was, Halt had explained earlier, so that anyone looking from the shore or the deck of the moored boats would only see two random pieces of floating driftwood. This was an essential part of their plan—not to be seen or noticed.

Shivering slightly, Evanlyn kicked her legs to warm herself up as she swam towards Halt. The sea alternately caused her to rise up and drop with each churning wave. It was a lot harder to swim in than any still water stream had ever been. They both stuck out towards where the ships were moored. Evanlyn merely followed in his wake, desperately trying not to think of all the things that might be swimming in the black water underneath her. She once had to bite her lip to keep from crying aloud as a strand of seaweed brushed her ankle…at least she hoped it was seaweed. However, for the most part, she kept her eyes fixed on Halt's bobbing head in the water, doggedly keeping up with him.

Eventually, she began to hear the lap of waves against the wood of boats and piers. As they drew even closer, she could discern the gentle bump of wood on wood as the boats were pushed up by the lapping waves against their fenders. She looked up then, dimly seeing the shapes of them held fast to their spaces. Halt led her to the furthest end of one of the piers and held a hand up for her to stop and wait. She obliged. He held still and listened for a while before deciding that it was safe.

He took out a grappling prong, weighing it in his hands to throw as he tread water. It took two tries, but he finally got it to hold fast into the wood of the pier a meter and a half above their heads. He then used it to help him climb up the slick wood until he was on the walkway. There was another pause as he looked and listened carefully for any guards before signaling for her to make her way up when he saw that the coast was clear.

He headed purposely towards one of the boats and she followed as quietly as she could. She knew that Halt had found, and bought passage on, a boat that was leaving for Araluen tomorrow when he'd scouted the docks. She guessed now that this was that boat. There was only one watchman aboard her, but he was fast asleep, a bottle tipped over by his feet. Even from this distance, she could smell the strong liquor it had contained. That man wouldn't be waking any time soon, she thought.

It was easy enough for her and Halt to get past him—especially Halt. Despite the watchman's inebriated state, Halt still took care to walk silently and rock the boat as little as possible. It was eerie how quietly he could move.

Once aboard, they secured themselves in places where they knew they probably wouldn't be discovered—at least not quickly. She knew that Halt had bought them both their passage beforehand in order to lessen any conflict that might arise in case they were discovered early. Despite their sneaky way of coming aboard, they weren't actually stowaways.

As she crouched in her hiding spot, she was very aware of her damp clothes and of the night air that accentuated the chill. But that fact didn't bother her as much as it might have in any other situation because she knew that she was so close now, so close to finally getting home.

* * *

 **A/N:** Thanks again for reading! As always, feedback is super appreciated! So is constructive criticism: let me know if you see anywhere where I can improve and I'll try to fix it as soon as possible.

So things have finally started getting to the point where they really start moving along in the story, which should hopefully be super exciting to write. I hope you all have amazing weeks and the best for this new year. Until next time!


	10. Chapter 9

**A/N:** Next chapter's up! This one was getting into a 9k word count so I decided to split it up to help with the flow. That said, you can probably expect the next chapter a little sooner than usual. (It still needs quite a bit of editing though.) Also, just so everyone has a head's up, I'm planning on writing this book in a little bit of an episodic sort of fashion with some smaller plot arcs inside and tied into the overarching one. I hope that sort of style won't put anyone off. This weeks flashback belongs to Lady Pauline and Alyss (because their awesome and I love them) XD Thanks to everyone who followed, favorited, and reviewed: you make it all worth while and really provide the motivation to continue!

 **jaymzNshed:** I love them together too XD They've got a few adventures/trials/mishaps in their future that I'm looking forward to writing. Thanks so much for the kind words and review!

 **Anonim:** I'm excited to write what will happen next XD. Thanks so much for the review and the compliment. I try pretty hard to make my fight scenes interesting, and I'm really glad/relieved to hear that it's working out. Thanks again!

 **Ranger-Corpses** : Things are indeed looking up… for now anyway :) Thanks so much for the review, it means a lot!

 **TrustTheCloak:** I have it planned for Crowley to actually going to start becoming another one of the main focuses (I totally don't have too many already *sheepish smile*), so you'll definitely see more of him—especially starting in the chapter after next. Thanks for the review!

 **Dragonslover98** : Thanks so much for the review, and the encouragement! It made my day to read. I'm really glad you liked it. You'll find out about Halt and Evanlyn today XD And yes, Halt's not going to have the best of times when he starts to meet up with everyone he knew before. Thanks again!

 **helloyesimhere:** Thanks for the review! I'm really glad it's actually exciting. I get often get worried that my writing is boring/uninteresting, so it was encouraging to read that it wasn't this time. X) I hope this next one proves exciting too XD

* * *

 **Chapter 9: Of Outlaws and Friendships Part I**

 **~x~X~x~**

 _A Year Previous_

 **~x~X~x~**

 _Lady Pauline glanced up as Alyss entered the room in the Inn that they were sharing, a small smile transforming the solemn look that often adorned her face. Alyss was young for an apprentice—only 14. But she took her training seriously, often too seriously in Pauline's opinion. When Alyss smiled it could brighten up an entire room, so it was nice to see her so happy. It had been that way ever since they'd come to the village of Bawtry, and Pauline was glad._

 _Pauline and Alyss had come to Bawtry in the guise of the wife and daughter of an itinerant farmer, in order to gather some information. Bawtry was a village that was very near the border between the King's Lands and Morgarath's current holdings. This made it a prime spot to gather information. Pauline and two of her agents had made several small forays across the border and Alyss had been tasked with staying in Bawtry to handle the communications, and to see if she could gather any other useful information from the village._

 _Pauline had only just returned the day before; her two agents, Allan and Edmund were still across the border. The Couriers had recently been getting intelligence that Morgarath was preparing to mobilize again, attempting to gather strength. Truthfully, there had been many scares like that over the years that she and her fellow Couriers, and even the Rangers, had had to investigate—often to little purpose. Unfortunately, this time, the reports they were receiving were already looking ominously promising. Now, she brushed all that aside and instead focused on Alyss._

 _"You look happy," she said, smiling at her apprentice._

 _Alyss only nodded in agreement. "I think I made a friend," she admitted, her eyes bright, cheeks slightly flushed with excitement—and something else that Pauline couldn't quite discern. "A real one this time."_

 _"Is this the boy you were telling me about earlier this week?" Pauline asked. "The friendly one who showed you around when we arrived?"_

 _Alyss nodded and gave her a conspiratorial smile. "He works on one of the farms during the day, but we've been meeting in the late afternoon. He's given me a lot of good information; he's actually really observant."_

 _What she didn't say was that this boy had nearly single-handedly brightened the past two weeks she had spent in Bawtry alone. She had been nervous and worried: this had been her first solo assignment after all. But Will had been a bright spot, and helped ease her worries of making mistakes._

 _There was also one other thing she had purposely neglected to tell her mentor: that she had been trying to teach him how to read and write during their spare time together. Will had been picking up her lessons quickly. He had a curiosity and an almost hunger for learning that made him an excellent student._

 _The problem was that Alyss wasn't certain her mentor would approve or her taking time out of her assignments to teach a farm boy how to read—or even that it was the right thing to do. In Alyss's opinion though, she was certain that it was. She had seen how Will lived, and she'd been hoping that teaching him to read might give him more options, and a quicker way out._

 _Another more selfish part of her had taught him because she didn't want their friendship to just end when she inevitably left. She'd been hoping that they might be able to write each other. This was the other thing she wasn't certain her mentor would approve of—especially considering the sensitive nature of the field she was training to enter._

 _But she hadn't been able to let even those doubts stop her. Will… well, there was just something about Will that brought a warm feeling to her stomach—especially when he smiled—that made her happy and content just to be near him._

 _She was still silently debating whether or not to tell Pauline, when one of Pauline's agents came bursting through the door, an urgent expression on his face._

 _Pauline saw it and was quick to ask, "Edmund, what happened?"_

 _"Allan is fairly certain that his cover was blown," he said urgently._

 _"How deeply?"_

 _"Very, I'm afraid."_

 _Alyss saw Pauline's expression turn grim and she knew why. If Allan's cover had been blown, it could put their entire operation in jeopardy. Pauline had told her before that, in cases like this, it was usually best that they get out as quickly as possible. As if in line with her thoughts, Pauline spoke._

 _"Alyss and I will get packed and we'll leave as soon as we can."_

 _As Alyss hurried to pack, she felt her stomach sinking for two reasons: one was apprehension over their suddenly tenuous situation, and the other was because she hadn't yet given Will an address with which to send any letter he might try to write her_ — _or even a way in which to send her letters. And she knew she'd never have the time to find and tell him before they left._

 **~x~X~x~**

 _Present Day_

 **~x~X~x~**

Pauline stared across the table, glancing briefly at the Ranger commandant, before looking back to the King as he spoke again.

"It's just that I'd prefer not to leave anything like this to chance. If the reports from Pauline's contact are true, we will need to send people into Morgarath's lands to assess the situation. We can't just leave it at this."

"But how would we go about doing that?" Lord Northolt, King Duncan's supreme army commander asked. "It has been getting harder and harder to get our agents in, and the Ranger's are already spread too thin."

Duncan sighed heavily. "I know," he said dully, then brightened a little as he looked back to Pauline. "Is there any chance of sending your contact—the one who first gathered the information—back in?"

Pauline thought about that for a moment before she answered. "I suppose there is a chance, but it isn't a very large one—especially not if this needs to be done with any immediacy. This particular man isn't a Courier; he is a mercenary I've worked with before. Consequently, my contact with him tends to be more sporadic than not."

"Besides this," Crowley finally spoke up, "we need first-hand information for a situation as serious as this."

"What do you suggest, Crowley?" Duncan asked, leaning slightly forwards.

Crowley chewed thoughtfully on his lip before replying. "I think it would be for the best if I went myself."

"That's out of the question—it's too much of a risk," Duncan protested, angrily moving his hand in a sharp negative gesture. "I need you here."

"I think Crowley's right," Lord Northolt interjected carefully after a pause. "War, as you well know, Your Majesty, is a risk. And, in this instance, I think there is a greater risk in not finding out the exact nature of Morgarath's plans."

Duncan, knew that Northolt had a point, knew that he was probably right, but he wasn't quite ready to let it go. He looked almost helplessly towards Pauline who so far hadn't said anything, hoping he might find an ally in her.

"What do you think, my lady?"

"I agree with Crowley and Northolt, I'm afraid," she said after a pause. "We need official confirmation as well further information and I think that Crowley is our best chance of getting it."

Duncan breathed out another sigh, the tension slowly draining out of his body. "I suppose you're right." Then he looked towards his Ranger Commandant with genuine concern. "Just promise me, Crowley, that you'll come back in one piece."

"I'll certainly try," Crowley replied cheerfully.

It was as they were all getting up to leave that there was an urgent knock at the door. Duncan's steward poked his head in.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, Your Majesty, but I've just had news in from Gallica."

Duncan nodded at him to enter and he complied, handing a sealed parchment to his King.

Duncan opened it and scanned it quickly. Then his face paled and he sat heavily back down into his seat.

"What is it, my lord?" Crowley was the first to ask.

"It's Cassandra," the King breathed. "I've just received word that my cousin's holdings, where she was staying, are under attack by a Gallic warlord—and the situation doesn't look good."

 **~x~X~x~**

It had been about only a couple of days since Will had begun to travel with Horace and Gilan. Needless to say, things weren't going as well as Will had hoped they might—especially when it came to relationships. Well, Will got along just fine with Gilan. He was already starting to view him as a friend, maybe even like a sort of older brother. But when it came to Horace, things were… strained, to say the least. This had been especially true since the day before when Gilan had left them to take care of some business. Both Will and Horace and had been instructed to lie low and mind the camp and each other while he was gone.

It was the minding each other part that they were struggling with now. And Will was at a loss as to what to do. At first, Will had admired the bigger boy for his skill and thought they might just become good friends. That had been a fairly exciting prospect because he'd had very few actual friends over the course of his life. But all of Will's attempts to befriend the bigger boy were either ignored or rebuffed.

He wasn't certain which of them had actually started it, but both of them had made some careless remarks that the other had taken offense to… and it had only escalated from there. All their conversations somehow rapidly degraded into a battle of insults and slights.

Will had a quick tongue and a faster mind that usually put him on top of these verbal arguments. Horace however, had physical strength and size that Will could never hope to match—and he usually resorted to it when his tongue failed him. Will was fast and agile and was always able to escape into a tree or into the woods until things blew over.

But none of that was conducive to building friendships. And as he had gotten to, or at least thought he had gotten to, know Horace better, he wasn't really certain that he wanted that anymore. So far as Will could tell, Horace was not much more than a bully who had some skill at arms.

Now, however, Will felt a little bad about his recent behavior. He decided that he owed it to himself and to Horace to try again. Maybe they had both just gotten off on the wrong foot. After all, there was no real reason why they shouldn't _try_ to be friends, right? So thinking, he approached the bigger boy who was currently sitting on the opposite side of camp, facing away from him.

"Hey, um, Horace?" he asked tentatively as he approached.

The bigger boy grunted noncommittally, and Will took that as permission to continue.

"I just wanted to say that maybe we got off on the wrong foot earlier. I was hoping we could try again." So saying, he cleared his throat and smiled brightly, holding out his hand. "Hi, I'm Will."

Horace however, frowned, not taking Will's offered hand.

"Look, I'm really not interested in being friends," he said at length, shooting Will a mistrustful look.

"Why not?" Will eventually stammered once he found his voice. "After all, we'll be living together now?" he pointed out, confused and a little stung that Horace had refused him so easily.

"It's not my fault that Gilan has a dumb habit of picking up useless strays," Horace said bluntly, a small bitter edge to his words.

Will, strung even further by that, immediately shot back angrily, "well then, what exactly does that make you?"

He was instantly gratified to see Horace flinch, knowing he'd scored a solid hit in their verbal battle.

"Well, at least I'm actually worth something. I'm a _warrior_. I've been training as a knight and can actually lend a hand in a fight," Horace protested immediately, his face flushing.

"A knight who obviously never finished their training," Will pointed out, "or you'd still be there. I'll be a much better knight than you when I get accepted into Battleschool."

For a moment, all Horace could feel was an ugly all-encompassing sense of hurt as everything poked just too much at his insecurities about himself. He'd been fine with helping Will and his village out, but he honestly hadn't wanted Will to join them. Things had been just fine when it had only been him and Gilan—better than fine actually. He'd actually started to feel safe, comfortable, and happy for the first time in a long time. Then in came Will, threatening to throw all of it out of balance. What was worse was that Horace had already been rubbed raw by the bullying he'd experienced over the past year. And here was this smaller, cowardly, boy reopening and rubbing salt into old wounds on top of everything else. For a moment, Horace floundered in the hurt. Then he saw a chance to get back on top of the argument, a chance to pay Will back for the pain.

"You? A Knight? Don't make me laugh."

"Yes," Will said defensively—already wishing that he'd just kept his mouth shut about his dream.

But Horace was far from finished. "You'll never be accepted into any Battleschool. You're too small. You don't even have a last name. You can't even do anything with Gilan and I. You're nothing but dead weight."

"And that's all that you have in between your ears!" Will shot back, refusing to let Horace know how much what he'd said had hurt. He glared a challenge at the bigger boy, then turned to dash away into the woods, refusing to let the tears he now felt trying to build in his eyes show. That hadn't gone well at all.

 **~x~X~x~**

"Evanlyn," Halt's quiet words reached through the covering of her fairly flimsy hiding spot. "You can come out now; the ship's underway."

She breathed out a massive sigh of relief. It felt like she had been in that cramped spot for days. It had certainly been hours. She had overheard a few snatches of conversation from the captain and the crew that told her that the ship had been delayed by some goods that hadn't arrived on time. In waiting for the goods to arrive, the ship had missed the favorable tide and so hadn't been able to leave port until late afternoon. It had been one of the most uncomfortable waits she had ever experienced. She crawled free of the covering that had sheltered her, groaning softly as she eased her cramped muscles. She could see the ship's crew and several other people she assumed were passengers milling about on deck.

"Comfortable, were you?" the Ranger asked mildly as he watched her stretch.

She shot him a glare in answer. "No. I wasn't. In fact, that was the most uncomfortable—" she started to say when she was cut short as the captain of the boat made his way past them.

He gave them a curt nod as he walked by and then stopped short, turning around in surprise.

"It's you," he said incredulously to Halt. "I thought that we had left without you."

"We've been here for a while now," Halt shrugged.

The captain's face flushed with annoyance. "Well, why on earth did you not answer and come forward when I was calling for your earlier? I read the passenger list several times! You caused some significant headaches for me in keeping silent like you did. I kept thinking we were two passengers short!" the man said angrily.

"You called us?"Halt asked. "I didn't hear it."

"You didn't hear—why, you," The man started to protest in angry disbelief before he decided to give the matter up. "Just make certain to answer next time if I call! As captain, I do need to be aware of the passengers I've taken on this ship!"

Halt nodded seriously. "I'll certainly answer," he said agreeably before adding "… if I hear you."

Evanlyn thought so could detect the barest edge of a wolfish smile touching the corners of Ranger's lips as he said it.

The captain threw his hands up in despair and marched off back to the tiller. Evanlyn smiled at Halt.

"You could have gone easier on the poor man." She said as soon as the captain was out of earshot.

Halt only shrugged, that faint trace of a smile still on his face.

 **~x~X~x~**

Horace sat worriedly in the camp, glancing surreptitiously up at the sinking sun for what must have been the millionth time. Will should have been back hours ago. This had happened innumerable times during the time Gilan had been gone, after all. They had fought and Will had left… Or, rather, Horace had as good a driven him off, he thought wincing. An unsettling guilty feeling seemed to settle in the pit of his stomach. During all those past times, Will had usually come back within an hour or two... but he hadn't this time.

At first, when Will hadn't shown up, Horace had been too angry to care. But, as the hours dragged by, that feeling slowly faded into another: worry—and even the beginnings of guilt as he recalled Gilan having told them to keep an eye on each other. That, he had begun to realize, was the exact opposite of what he'd done. As he replayed what had happened between them over in his mind, the guilt only got stronger. When he'd been in the heat of the moment, he'd only been paying attention to how much Will had hurt him, how much Will was a potential threat. He hadn't thought on his own actions.

He realized now that he'd been behaving little better to Will than the bullies at Battleschool had behaved towards him. For the second time in as many months, he found himself wondering how what he'd done was the least been knightly. First, he'd nearly robbed that man and his wife in the woods and now he'd been bullying and fighting with Will.

Horace shifted uncertainly as he glanced again at the sun and tried to think of what to do. He had no idea where Will had gone to, and he hadn't the faintest idea how to track. His gaze lowered helplessly to the surrounding woodlands before he decided to take a guess. Perhaps Will had gone to the nearby town—it was as good a place as any to look. Decided, he got to his feet and hoped he wasn't too late.

 **~x~X~x~**

Will sat dejectedly on the outskirts of the small town. He'd hoped that being near people, or watching their goings on, might help him forget his most recent fight with Horace… It hadn't worked. He couldn't help his mind from thinking back to what Horace had said. What if he was right? What if he really was just some useless add on? What would happen if Gilan started to agree with Horace? Would he send him away? What if—he cut his musing short as he saw three men making their way past where he sat.

There was something about them that Will took an instinctive dislike too. If he was asked exactly what it was about them that was ringing alarm bells in his mind, he wouldn't have been able to put a name to it. Perhaps it was their stance, expression, or look in their eyes. Perhaps it was the way in which they seemed ominously familiar.

Whatever it was, Will was certain that they were trouble; the kind of people who didn't mean well to anyone. So thinking, he got up and started walking casually away as they drew close and passed him. He pretended to be busy with something so as not to attract their notice. It seemed to work for they just continued past, heading for the woods at a languid pace.

Will was in the middle of letting out his breath in a small sigh of relief when he realized why the man in the middle of the group, the one wearing a worn and grubby surcoat with a leaping boar emblazoned on the front, looked familiar. Will has seen a rough sketch of that man's face on one of the many bounty posters Gilan had been looking through shortly before he had left.

Will wasn't the fastest or the best of readers. He'd only just started learning a year ago when he'd met the girl he'd considered to be the first, and best, friend he had ever made. She hadn't stayed long though. In fact, he often wished he could see her again, wished that she had managed to leave a way for him to write her as they'd promised. But she had left too suddenly for that. Will had practiced his reading whenever he could because it reminded him of her.

It was because of this that he knew how to read well enough to ascertain the description that had been underneath the picture. The man's name was Edric Gamel and he'd once been a knight before he'd been dishonorably discharged from the army. From there, he'd become a criminal. Based on the list Will had seen on the notice, he had become a rather nasty one. He'd murdered and brutally attacked several people during his numerous robberies. There was a fairly big reward out for him, Will thought with a small shudder as he watched him disappear into the tree line. Then he froze, the wheels of his mind beginning to turn.

If he could somehow find a way to capture this man and his companions for the bounty, then maybe he could prove to Gilan and Horace that he wasn't merely dead weight—that he could be just as valuable a member as Horace was. More realistically, and at the very least, he could follow the men and find out where they had made camp and report back to Gilan with the location. He was fairly certain he could do that safely.

As Will looked around in thought, trying to decide what to do, he saw a familiar figure making their way down the street. It was Horace. The sight of him settled Will's thoughts into a decisive course of action. He was going to go after those men and he was going to prove himself—he had to.

Quickly, so as to be out of sight before Horace managed to spot him, he turned and made his way away from town and towards the point where he'd seen the men disappear into the woods. As soon as he had made it in, he could just make out the small forms of the men as they moved ahead of him through the trees. Will ghosted after them.

 **~x~X~x~**

Gilan was passing through the small village on his way back to where near he, Will, and Horace had made camp. When he had offered Will the choice to come with him, he had done it on impulse—he hadn't really been prepared to take on another… student, he supposed now.

In all actuality, he hadn't really been prepared to take Horace in either. That was another time he had simply acted on impulse. He wouldn't have just let Horace wander into that camp of Morgarath's men, and he wouldn't have left Will with that poor excuse for a guardian either. As for taking them in, he'd felt a strange sort of connection to the two of them—maybe it was because he had seen a bit of himself in both of them, he wasn't certain.

Regardless of the reason, he'd realized that Will would need several things if he was going to be staying with them and living the life of a wandering mercenary. He needed clothes that fit and would offer him protection and warmth; he needed shoes, basic supplies like a bedroll, cloak, and even some simple basic care items **.** And he also needed a way in which to defend himself—which meant he needed weapons too.

It had taken Gilan quite a while to find everything—as well as gather supplies to make a recurve bow for him. It had also significantly diminished the amount of coins he had saved up. He'd need to pick up several more profitable jobs in the next few months if the three of them were to live comfortably through the winter. The price for impulsivity, he supposed with a wry smile. Not even the inner voice that often cautioned against him rushing into things without thinking, had saved him this time.

He shook his head slightly at himself as he continued on his way. He was nearing the edge of the settlement when he picked up on the muttered conversation of two elderly women. From what he could make out, they were whispering about a man named Edric Gamel. Apparently, he and his men had just recently passed through. During the course of their discussion, they even gestured towards where they'd seen him pass by and leave the village. The name had immediately caught Gilan's attention and his mind flew instantly back towards his earlier thoughts of needing some more lucrative jobs.

Following the women's words, he came across the footprints of three men, right at the edge of the settlement and heading off into the woods. He frowned as he studied the ground more closely, absently drumming his fingers on the hilt of his sword. The prints of those three men weren't the only ones. There were two smaller sets that traveled parallel to, and sometimes overlapped the first set, as if these two new people had been following in the wake of the bandits. One was the bare footprints of a youth, and the other set had a distinct heel print that Gilan had become very familiar with over the past few weeks.

* * *

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading! Reviews always make my day and really give me the motivation to continue—as well as help me learn. Don't hesitate to let me know if you think something needs improvement: grammar, flow, character portrayals—and I'll try to fix things as soon as possible.

I hope Horace and Will seemed in character/believable in their responses, feelings, and reactions... I did what I did because it seemed too simple just to have them immediately become friends, especially considering their backgrounds in this AU and their rocky start in _The Ruins of Gorlan._ Things will work it out though I promise, don't worry XD Next chapter half will be up soon! And the next two little chapter arcs will be called: 'The Dark of the Moon', and 'Memories and Outsiders' respectively. Which might give a hint as to where things will be headed X)

I hope you all have an amazing week! Until next time!


	11. Chapter 10

**A/N:** Here's the next chapter! Sorry it took a little longer than I expected, life seems to been taking a sledge hammer to me recently. I've got hit with trouble at school and loss at home... it's not been a fun few weeks. Anyhow, this chapter doesn't have flashback because it's a continuation of the other (and also because I'm lazy and couldn't seem to weave in a fitting one). X) I hope everything seems believable and in character... I'm trying my best. Thanks to everyone who followed, favorited, and reviewed: you make it all worth while and really provide the motivation to continue!

 **Ranger-Corpses** : Yup, all three of them are heading headlong into some trouble XD Thanks for the review, it means a lot!

 **TrustTheCloak:** Thanks so much for the review, and for what you said :3 It made my day to read. I liked the idea of Will and Alyss somehow meeting and decided to run with it. I'm glad Horace seemed right, I'm always super worried about getting character portrayals right. Yup, Gilan's definitely got his work cut out for him, and their little band is going to have a lot to deal with.

 **Dragonslover98** : I really like Will and Alyss so I couldn't resist XD Next chapter will probably be mostly about Halt and Evanlyn finally getting to Araluen. Also, I'm glad Will and Horace's trouble seems accurate/believable to you: I was pretty worried about it. X) This chapter should answer the question of just how much trouble they'll get into XD Thank you so much for the review! I appreciate it!

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 **Chapter 10: Of Outlaws and Friendships Part II**

 **~x~X~x~**

Will hadn't trailed the men very far into the woods before he realized that he wasn't alone. He was being followed. The first clue came from the sound of several snapping twigs and a rustling of the brush behind him. Will turned to look in that direction and felt his eyebrows draw together as he frowned. It seemed that Horace had seen him leave the village after all. He stopped short, seeing no other choice but to wait for Horace to catch up. He couldn't well sneak up on the men with Horace blundering about through the undergrowth so loudly after him.

"Will!" Horace said, smiling in relief as he finally caught up with him. Part of him wanted to apologize or at the least find a more congenial way to speak with him, but he saw no encouragement to try in Will set features and hard eyes. It was quite the opposite really. Horace hesitated for a moment before he shrugged diffidently.

"What are you doing?" he asked instead, his tone sounding a little bit more accusatory than he'd wanted it to in response.

Will raised a quick hand to his lips for silence and seemed about to speak before his eyes suddenly widened.

"Horace! Look out!"

Horace turned in the direction of Will's pointing finger and his mouth went dry as he saw a large man with a sword coming at him from the side. Almost instantaneously, he became aware of two other figures: one coming at Will from behind, and another still, coming at them from the other side. Those other two were further behind the first man and had only just cleared the underbrush. Horace, as soon as he was aware of the danger, immediately drew his sword and pushed Will behind him in an attempt to shield him.

Will watched horrified as Horace's sword met with that of the first man in a ringing clash of steel on steel. He recognized the men as the ones he'd been attempting to follow. His heart sank as he realized that they were outnumbered and about to be surrounded. Obviously, the outlaws had somehow become aware that they were being followed and had doubled back to outflank them… Outflank and kill them, Will realized as Horace deflected a cut that would have taken his head from his shoulders.

The bigger boy moved after his parry to get in a counter swing and the unthinkable happened; Horace stumbled as his foot caught in a depression that had been partially covered by heather. Losing his footing entirely, he fell. The outlaw saw his opening and struck. Horace tried to deflect again, while he was falling, but the attempt was clumsy. He let out a cry as his forearm was grazed. His sword fell from his hand.

Horace lay helpless before the murderous man—Edric Gamel Will realized as he became dimly aware of the boar emblazoned on the surcoat. But that hardly mattered. Will really only had eyes for the man's sword as he started to sweep it down towards Horace's unprotected frame. Will acted immediately, throwing himself at the outlaw, sending him off balance. Will, with no weapon to speak of, lashed out with his body instead. He hit and clawed at the rough man even as he clung to the man's side. The wildness of the attack took the outlaw by surprise for a few moments before he managed to fling Will off of him with a violent movement of the hand that held his sword. Will tumbled to the ground, stunned, feeling a sharp pain in his shoulder and chest.

By then, Horace had again gotten to his feet and reclaimed his sword. He stood protectively over Will. But things were starting to look dire as the outlaw's two companions finally reached them. Horace gritted his teeth and raised his sword, trying to keep track of all three at once, readying himself for the first deadly attack. But it never came.

Edric let out a cry as the shaft of an arrow seemed to sprout out of his chest, piercing his heart. Then Gilan was among them, driving forward into the remaining two, pushing them back and away from Will and Horace.

The two bandits were caught off guard by the sudden attack and the speed and power behind it. They both searched their new opponent's eyes for any indication of hesitance or mercy and saw none. As soon as they saw that, they intensified their own efforts, fighting back with all the fury and desperation of cornered rats in a trap.

Horace didn't know how Gilan had come to be there, and he didn't really care in the moment. He was just glad he had arrived when he had. As soon as he saw that Gilan was handling the last two, he knelt quickly by where Will lay to see if he was alright. Will was already trying to sit up and Horace lent him a hand.

"You saved my life," Horace said, then added, his tone slightly disbelieving, "you attacked an armed warrior with your bare hands! I've never seen anything so brave…" he trailed slightly as he remembered all the bullying things he'd said and done—and all because he'd be insecure and jealous. He felt even more ashamed than before. "Why? I thought… well…"

"I don't hate you," Will said when he could find the words to speak, he was still shaking from the reality of his brush with death, and could feel tears gathering in his eyes. Nevertheless, he took a breath and finished speaking. "I mean, we may have fought, but I never hated you."

All Horace could do was shake his head amazement before he nodded, understanding. Then he made a decision. "I owe you my life. I'll not forget it. If you ever need help, or a friend, I'll be there."

They stared into each other's eyes for a moment before Horace reached out a hand, mimicking what Will had tried to do earlier that day.

"I'm Horace," he said, smiling.

Will smiled also and then grimaced slightly as he reached out his hand in return. "Will—" he started to say but cut himself short with a soft groan.

As the shock had started to wear off, he'd become more and more aware of a pain in his chest and shoulder. It was a pain that was exacerbated tenfold by the act of reaching out his arm. He lowered it quickly and reached up with his other hand to touch the spot. He paled when it came back bloodied. Horace too saw the blood and the red that was starting to stain Will's rough tunic. Horace's eyes widened and he rose to his feet, calling to Gilan as the woodsman cut down the last outlaw.

"Gilan, help! Will's hurt!"

Gilan swore softly and made his hurried way over. Quickly, but as gently as he could, he removed Will's shirt to assess the damage. Horace saw Gilan's jaw set as his quick eyes took it all in. There was a long flesh wound that stretched across the right side of Will's chest and to his shoulder. Gilan could tell at a glance that it wasn't too serious. It was long, but not overly deep, and it hadn't caught any major arteries. The seep of red was fairly fast, but not dangerous.

However, there was an area of it near his shoulder that would probably need stitching. The bleeding wasn't heavy, but Gilan pressed Will's now balled up shirt into it to temporarily staunch the flow. He called Horace to hold it in place while he retrieved his horse, fetched some water, and the medical kit. He set his bedroll on the ground and helped Will on it, then filled some bowls with water. Having done this, he took a cloth scrap and dipped it in the bowl before kneeling again by Will.

"This might hurt a little, but I need to clean the wound or it'll get infected, understand?"

Will nodded once, his eyes misting, either from the pain or the shock of what had happened—Horace couldn't tell. All he could do now was hover like an anxious mother-hen, fidgeting. He clenched his left hand over his right forearm. As he'd been holding the cloth to Will's wound, he'd realized that he was bleeding too. Vaguely, he remembered the cut to his forearm. He didn't want to draw attention to it though. Will needed help more urgently.

"Horace," Gilan said, "I need you to take the linen strips I use for bandaging from my medical kit and set them out."

Horace complied immediately, eagerly, heading to the saddlebag that Gilan had retrieved from his horse. While he did that, Gilan carefully cleaned Will's injury. His movements were deft. His touch was surprisingly gentle, but his face was set in a hard expression that seemed so disgusted, angry, and slightly vacant that Horace kept his distance while he worked. The water in the bowl soon ran pink instead of clear. Fresh blood seeped in to fill the cleaned wound, but the seep was slow and not at all alarming.

Gilan rummaged in his pack for some healing herbs, making a paste from them with an obviously practiced hand. Then he reached further into his pack for a very specific slave.

"This might sting a little, Will," he warned as he spread it carefully over the bleeding gash.

Will winced as it indeed stung on first contact and then he visibly relaxed.

"It dulls the pain and helps stave off infection," Gilan explained as he threaded a needle to stitch the deeper part of the cut. Throughout the process, Will remained stoically silent, not looking forward to the questions he knew were coming now that the emergency was passed. It didn't take long.

"Just exactly what were you two trying to do?" Gilan demanded to know as he worked, his voice sounding angrier than Will had ever heard it.

"It was my fault," Horace blurted, gripping his arm harder where the sword had cut it. "I-I," he stammered as he tried to find an explanation. But Will cut him off.

"I-I'm sorry." Will stammered, not wanting Horace to take the blame; he had seen Horace's first instinctive move to try and protect him from Edric. In Will's opinion, Horace had saved his life as much as he had saved Horace's, and he didn't want him to get in trouble. "It was my fault. I decided to follow them," he admitted, his voice tight.

"I just wanted to prove that you didn't make a mistake letting me travel with you—that I could be just useful as Horace… I thought that, if I found out where that outlaw made his camp, that you'd—you'd…" his words trailed away into a soft pained groan and he closed his eyes. "Please don't send me back to the village," he finally managed.

"Why would I do that?" Gilan asked, sounding dumbfounded.

Will was too exhausted and hurt to do more than whisper miserably, "because I messed up."

Then, despite the pain, he straightened. He had made a mistake, a big one. The least he could do was face up to whatever punishment that might descend like a warrior, a knight—like his father would have. Having decided this, he looked Gilan squarely in the eyes.

"Yes, you messed up," Gilan agreed, his expression neutral and fairly unreadable. "And quite spectacularly I might add."

Will flinched, but Gilan wasn't finished. He tied off the last painful stitch and looked Will in the eyes in turn. "But Will, messing up is part of learning and growing—I'm hardly going to throw you to the wolves for it. And I doubt you'll go around making that mistake again." He shook his head.

Will now looked at him with a mix of uncertainty, confusion, and surprise, so Gilan continued.

"The only time you ever have to worry about mistakes is if you keep making the same ones. You don't have to prove anything to me—and I'd never send you back to that village of yours. I asked you to come with me because you already proved yourself when we first met."

He tried to ascertain whether or not that had sunk in and nodded to himself when it looked like it had. He then took one of the long strips of cloth, helped Will sit up, and began carefully bandaging his chest and shoulder. When he'd finished his bandaging, he set a length of the linen aside.

"Just stay still and rest for a while, now," he said as he eased Will back down.

Since most all of their supplies were back at their camp, Gilan spread his own blanket over Will, gently arranging it comfortably around him. He lightly touched Will's shoulder.

"It'll be sore for a while and stiff in the morning but don't stretch or pull at it; it'll aggravate the wound. You'll need to take it carefully for the next three days or so, alright?"

Will nodded and then lifted himself up just enough to wrap his arms around the woodsman. After a startled moment, Gilan returned the embrace gently, mindful of his injury. New tears brought on by relief and the stress of everything filled Will's eyes and he buried his face in the fabric of Gilan's tunic, not wanting Horace to see them.

"Thank you, Gil," Will murmured finally before laying back down, his tired eyes already starting to close. And Gilan thought he meant it for more than just tending his wound. So thinking, he simply nodded once. Then turned to Horace, who had been standing a few paces away. He was still holding his arm and looking away so as to give Will his moment of privacy.

"Now, let me see that arm of yours, Horace."

Horace started a little guiltily. He really should have learned by now that Gilan's eyes rarely missed anything, he thought ruefully. The tall warrior gestured for him to sit and reached for the bowl and cloth he had set aside. He then treated Horace's arm in much the same manner that he had just treated Will. Then the woodsman then told him to rest, went to deal with the dead outlaws, before moving off to sit alone and completely unmoving in that odd way of his.

Horace settled down near Will and tried to rest, but it was a fruitless effort. Every time he thought of Will and everything that had happened he found himself wincing, the guilt steadily eating away at him. He fidgeted while he debated with himself and then rose to his feet. He looked over to where the taller warrior was sitting. He clenched his fists and then approached him slowly, trying to gather his courage.

"Gilan?" he asked, reaching out a tentative hand out to tap his back.

"What is it?" Gilan asked, rising easily to his feet and turning to face him.

Horace slid his gaze away from the taller warrior's, shuffling his feet slightly. "I just wanted to thank you for rescuing us."

"I think you just did," Gilan grinned and then, taking in Horace's stance and expression, he tilted his head to the side slightly. "But there's something else?" he prompted.

Horace took a breath and then squared his shoulders.

"Yes sir, I wanted to let you know that it _was_ really my fault that we were out there, my fault that Will felt he had to prove himself… I… I behaved like a bully towards him. I made fun of his stature, and his lack of a last name, and I told him that he could never be a knight…" he glanced up uncomfortably to see Gilan staring at him with raised eyebrows.

"And then Will went and showed me that he probably has more courage than anyone else I've ever met ... what I'm trying to say is that I'm sorry. This happened because of me and I'm willing to take any punishment you see fit."

Steady eyes met his, searching until that he was certain that Horace really did understand and the gravity of this all, then nodded when he was sure. He knew he didn't need to explain why it was wrong; Horace knew it and was genuinely sorry.

"Alright Horace," he said finally, "thank you for telling me. As for punishment," Gilan shook his head, "I think your bandit friends took care of that well enough." He seemed to consider for a moment, then added, "But you can take the brunt of Will's camp duties for a couple days; he could certainly use the help. Does that sound fair?"

Horace stood at attention."Yes, sir."

Gilan shook his head in mock reproach. "There you go again with the 'sir'. Trust you to remember that from Battleshool but forget other aspects: such as the bit against bullying," He said teasingly, smiling to let Horace know it. He had made a mistake but he had learned from it, and it wouldn't be repeated. The matter was over.

Horace however, seemed to have frozen in place, a stricken look on his face. Then he slowly lowered himself into a sitting position.

"Horace?" Gilan asked then, crouching beside him, concerned.

"Bullying isn't allowed in Battleshcool?" Horace asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Isn't allowed is phrasing it lightly—isn't tolerated would be a better way to put it," Gilan answered, wondering what Horace was getting at. Though, he had a suspicion that he knew.

"But, I thought…" Horace trailed.

"Horace?" he asked again.

"So, if I had just gone to the instructors about it, it all would have stopped?" he whispered, "I thought that they knew about it and just allowed it as part of the toughening part of Battleschool."

Gilan's concerned eyes turned sad then with understanding. "Horace, I'm sorry," he said with such a silent note of understanding that Horace found his lip trembling slightly as his eyes began to sting.

The expression on Horace's face was so miserable that Gilan eased into a more comfortable sitting position beside him and put an arm around his shoulders. Horace, without realizing quite how he got there, Horace found himself leaning into Gilan in turn. All the guilt and stress of the day, mingled with all the previous pain that he had tried to bury, hurt too much for him even to be truly embarrassed by this show of emotion. What was more, Gilan didn't scorn or mock his pain, just quietly sat beside him, offering what little he could.

"I couldn't ever get my lessons done on time, fell behind, and was late for classes and drills…" Horace found himself speaking. He took a breath, "I had always thought I'd been dropped because I couldn't take it, because I was too weak to deal with it all." He took another shaky breath, "And the whole time, if I had just let the instructors know, those boys would have been dropped instead of me?" The words burst forth from him before he could stop them.

And it hurt—like digging out thorns that that been buried under his skill for far too long. Yet with the hurt also came a strange feeling of relief that they were out. Though the relief of knowing the truth could not quite, at that moment, dim all the pain, frustration, and anger of it all, the jarring realization of such lost opportunity and unfairness.

He'd spent the whole previous year always hurting, miserable, and alone. Even after he'd left, he'd been burdened by that black feeling that he'd failed because he was weak, because there was something inherently wrong with him.

At his words, Gilan turned his head towards him.

"Look at me, Horace," and Horace obliged, meeting the warrior's earnest gaze. "You are not and have never been weak. What happened to you in Battleshool never should have, and none of that was ever, or should ever have been on you. Don't carry it with you now."

As he said it, Horace instinctively knew that he was right. It wasn't true that he'd been dropped or bullied because he was flawed or weak. With that realization, he was finally able to move past the brunt of the hurt. It wasn't fully gone and he knew it would be a while before it would disappear fully, but that time was over, and it would no longer haunt him as it had. He had the start to a family now, true brothers for the first time that he could remember, he thought as he glanced at where Will now lay sleeping.

He was happier here than he had ever been before. Those realizations and Gilan's simple affirmation of understanding, and support were enough for Horace. He sniffed slightly, wiping at his eyes. For the first time in a long time, he truly felt like everything would be alright for him. Maybe not today, or even tomorrow, but it would be.

 **~x~X~x~**

Crowley stood in the stables of the northern castle that Duncan had made his base, tightening the girth strap on Cropper's saddle. The first light of day had not yet brushed the horizon, but Crowley intended to get an early start. He turned, however, when he heard the soft tread of a footfall near the door to the stable. He hadn't expected anyone but on duty sentries to be awake at this early hour.

"Lady Pauline," he greeted warmly, as soon as he saw who it was.

"Planning on an early start I see," she said. "I almost thought I missed you."

"Well, there was no sense in my just hanging around any longer. I have my mission, and I managed to rearrange my men enough to send one of my best Rangers to Gallica to see about the princess."

"I take it you had to bring back another of your retired Rangers to do that?" she asked.

Crowley nodded. "It's getting so that I'm no longer certain that there even is such a thing as retirement for a Ranger anymore," he admitted a little glumly.

"Too many people depend on you," she agreed. "Which is why I wanted to make certain to tell you to be careful. Travel safely Crowley."

As she said it, she had stepped towards him and laid a quick gentle hand on his cheek. They had been friends and staunch allies for a long time after all. In fact, there had once been a time when he had thought that they might… he shook his head slightly, inwardly.

"And you," he returned, his scarred face breaking into a genuine smile. He knew that she would be leaving shortly after him, on her way to deliver the latest news, and plans, to Baron Arald and Battlemaster David in Highcliff. He led Cropper out of the stables and mounted.

"Godspeed," she called as he waved farewell and nudged Cropper into a trot. He glanced back only once to see her waving back before he was out of the main gate and heading quickly down the road, heading unwaveringly towards the south… and Morgartath's lands.

 **~x~X~x~**

"I take it you have favorable news to report?" Morgarath asked sibilantly, holding the gaze of Teezal, one of his more useful subordinates.

The man nodded, licking his lips nervously as he searched for his voice. Morgarath smiled coldly at him, a smile that did not reach his black eyes.

"Our agents have moved everything into place. Your opening will be ready when you are. You can start moving your troops into position near Highcliff."

"That was to be expected," Morgarath said after a long uncomfortable pause.

Teezal nodded meekly, yet he still did not move off to bow and take his leave, he merely stood there hesitating. Morgarath made and ill-tempered gesture towards the man.

"Are you intending to stand there looking simple or was there actually something of import that you needed to say?" he demanded, his tone raised and cutting.

Teezal flinched, sweat starting to bead his brow. He hadn't spoken immediately because the other news he had to report wasn't as positive as the first.

"Yes, Lord Morgarath," he managed, trying hard to frame the words he knew he had to speak in a better way. Morgarath never responded favorably to ill news. Then he just miserably decided to have out with it. It was obvious that his lord was losing patience.

"There is still no word from that Gallic warlord you made contact with about Duncan's daughter. I don't think that he has her or can make the deal you planned."

He stood there, inwardly cringing, waiting for Morgarath to fly into one of his rages. But the Baron remained silent, unmoved, a cool look on his face.

"That's all that you had to report?" Morgarath asked scathingly. "I had gathered as much myself. Either he had failed to take the castle of Duncan's cousin—despite all the intelligence I provided him with, or the princess somehow managed to escape him. The rewards I promised him for her capture were far too exorbitant for him to stay silent if he had her in his grasp."

"What if he has her and decided to offer her safe return to Duncan in exchange for more than what you offered him?" Teezal asked.

"And you think," Morgarath sneered sarcastically, "that we wouldn't have heard anything about that?"

Truthfully, Morgarath had counted on the Gallic Warlord attempting to double cross him like that. His intentions for striking that deal with him had arisen from the fact that he did not have the manpower to go after the princess himself—once he'd learned of her whereabouts. He had thought it a worthwhile gamble.

He'd decided that it would be enough just to cause Duncan significant distraction dealing with the ransom of his daughter. Or, if the Warlord had somehow surprisingly kept his bargain and delivered the princess to Morgarath, all the better. Either way, he would gain something. And even now, though the scheme had failed, he had lost nothing.

He glanced back to see Teezal standing pale-faced over his blunderingly foolish question. Morgarath smiled inwardly. It was good to keep his men guessing. It increased the aura of power and fear he had built around himself. Teezal was a man whose ruthlessness and cruelty struck fear into the hearts of many, so to see him like this whenever he reported or spoke with Morgarath, was somehow gratifying to the Baron.

Teezal, for his part, could bring himself to say nothing as he realized that Morgarath was right. It was very doubtful that they wouldn't have heard anything—especially if the Gallic Warlord intended to pit Duncan against Morgarath to drive up the price of a ransom. His thoughts were cut short, however, as soon as he realized that Morgarath was still staring at him. Anger was building up in his expression and black eyes.

"No, Lord, you're right," he finally stammered lowering his head in a small bow.

"Of course I'm right. That's why it isn't your job to do the thinking. Now leave me to my studies," he said finally with a dismissing gesture, smiling darkly as Teezal nearly fled the room.

Things were going well. Although the Araluens had put up more of a resistance than he had expected—a lot of that blame he placed on that meddling red-head Crowley—and had denied him claim of the entire kingdom, it was still more than he'd had before.

Everything was already moving into place. All he needed was to enact his plan to end a few key people in service to Duncan, and set in motion his other plan to gain a good foothold into the King's lands. From there, and when the Scandians he had hired arrived, he would be able to launch a full-scale invasion and finally claim the King's Lands for his own. It had taken him longer than he had first thought—but it would all be over soon.

 **~x~X~x~**

"It occurs to me that I can't have you running around with no way to defend yourself properly," Gilan announced to Will about a week later, after the boy's injury had mostly healed. "Especially not if you take it into your head to come up with another harebrained scheme," he teased lightly.

Will flushed slightly at the joke but looked up eagerly none the less, his brown eyes alight with excitement and hope.

"You mean you're going to teach me to fight? You're going to teach me the combat skills of a knight?"

"Not combat skills," Gilan replied cheerily, "Ranger skills."

"How do you know Ranger skills?" Horace asked, dumbfounded, "where did you learn?"

And odd vague look came over Gilan's face then—slightly vacant and slightly lost, as he seemed to seek the answer.

"I suppose I must have just picked it up during my travels," he said finally. "I have run across Rangers before. Once, when I was hired by a Baron, I got the chance to see a Ranger giving his apprentice a lesson in archery, and even got to overhear a few tips on silent movement. I also ran across another a couple years back…. Although, I didn't get to spend all that much time with him," he added, he voice sounding confused.

Will and Horace exchanged glances. Based on what they knew of the secretive, and seemingly mystical nature of Rangers, just picking up on their skills by hanging around them didn't seem overly likely. But they had no cause to doubt that Gilan knew what he was talking about. He usually did. And he had to have learned to move unseen like he did somewhere. Maybe he had learned both at the same time and place.

Gilan seemed to shake himself slightly and turned to address Will, the smile returning. "Horace was probably right when he told you that you might be too small to be a knight—but that doesn't mean that you don't have skills in other areas. As I told you before, you are courageous, resourceful, observant and inquisitive. You're agile, good at moving without being noticed, and good at getting into places you're not supposed to. Those are all worthy skills and can be honed. There are weapons that would be suited to you."

Will, who'd felt his heart sink at Gilan's first words found himself looking up hopefully at the end. His attention shifted expectantly to the bundle that the tall warrior carried, suddenly burning with curiosity to know what was inside.

Gilan proffered them towards the boy who took them eagerly, lifting away the cloth. Inside was a bow and a quiver of arrows. A week ago, Will might have underappreciated such a weapon as a mere hunting tool or a toy. He remembered quite clearly making a crude one for himself when he was younger after all. But that was before he had seen what Gilan could do with such a weapon. It had amazing potential, he knew now.

The bow wasn't shaped like the one Gilan carried though. It was smaller and the limbs were a bit different and seemed to bend back on themselves. He glanced at the bow and then at the one Gilan had slung across his back and looked a question at the woodsman.

"It's a recurve bow," Gilan answered the unspoken question. "It gives you more power with a slighter draw weight. The riders of the Eastern Steppes use them."

Will nodded and moved to the other bundle that had been inside the first. That one revealed two knives, like the ones that Gilan carried at his right hip.

"A saxe and a throwing knife," he gave Will a brief demonstration of both, ending by sinking the blade of the throwing knife into the trunk of a tree with an accurate throw.

Will tried to replicate that last move with his own knife. The blade missed the spot he was aiming for by several centimeters and bounced off the trunk with a hum and a clang. His face fell.

"It takes practice," Gilan said, "lots of practice. But the idea behind is simple enough: the greater the distance, the more rotations of the blade. Unfortunately, concepts and practice are usually very different," he said with a wry smile. "An ordinary person practices until he gets it right. But an exemplary person practices…" He looked towards Horace.

"Until he never gets it wrong," Horace finished for him, smiling too at Will's crestfallen expression.

Will then picked up the bow and tried to remember how he'd seen Gilan use it. He selected an arrow and drew back on the string.

* * *

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading! Reviews feed the muse if you've a mind to leave one. X) My head's a little out of the game at the moment, so I'm sure I made plenty of mistakes this time around; if you see one don't hesitate to let me know and I'll fix it as soon as possible. There seemed to be a lot of tears/sadness from Will and Horace in this chapter. I hadn't really planned it that way, but this was how it ended up coming out. But both of them have a lot that they need to work though, I think: so I hope they seemed in character. Next chapter's flashback will belong to Gilan and Crowley, and I'm planning on the focus mainly being on Halt and Evanlyn (I think it's about their turn) XD

I wish you all the absolute best until next time!

 _Dedication:_ To my grandmother, who brought beauty and kindness most everywhere she went, and always inspired and encouraged me to be creative and reach for my best.


	12. Chapter 11

**A/N:** Next Chapter's up! This one was pretty fun to write, and I hope it proves enjoyable to read. So, it's getting near to the end of this school semester for me, and I have an absolute ton of final projects and papers coming up. That said, although I'll try my best to keep posting at least once a month, I'm not sure that I'll be able to until I get all those projects, papers, and tests out of the way. Needless to say, I'll probably be complaining about all this paperwork as much as or more than Crowley. Thanks to all of my readers for your support! (And if any of you want to help with all my mountain of paperwork/assignments, I'd gladly accept XD JK).

 **OakleafHeron:** Thanks so much for the review, support, and encouragement. It really does mean a lot.

 **Guest:** I'm really glad to hear you've enjoyed it so far. Thanks for the review and the compliment! I really appreciate it. :D

 **Ranger-Corpses:** Yup I'm trying to start building things up for the climax XD. And the answer to your question is a little spoiler-y, so I'll just say maybe he is… and maybe he isn't XD Thanks so much for the review!

 **whentheresawill:** Their relationship is one of my absolute favorite things in the book too! So I'm glad to hear that you think I got it (at least mostly) right X). Thanks for the compliment and the review.

 **jaymzNshed:** Thank you! As for Crowley's mission, well, there might be one or two small hitches here and there… :P Thanks again for the review!

 **Dragonslover98:** Hope the flashback doesn't disappoint x) Yup Morgarath's plans are starting to come to fruition. Some answers about Gilan and Crowley are coming this chapter. As for the ending and the extent to which it'll end happily, I'll answer that/get to that eventually XD Thanks for the review!

 **TrustTheCloak:** Yes, insomnia doesn't have to be all bad (I desperately try to convince myself) XD Yeah poor Will hasn't had it the best in this AU world, but things will be looking up for him (hopefully). You're also pretty spot on about Gilan; he has indeed had to do a lot by himself. Thank you so very much for your kind words, compliment, support, and review!

* * *

 **Chapter 11: Dark of the Moon Part I**

 **~x~X~x~**

 _A Few Years Previous_

 **~x~X~x~**

 _17-year-old Gilan had made a mistake—a big one. He'd miscalculated and, worse, he'd been careless. And he knew well that he might end up having to pay for it with his life._

 _He gasped softly, pressing a hand to the deep wound in his arm, trying to stem the flow of blood as he leaned against the wall of the alley he'd just ducked into the shadow of. He tried desperately to catch his breath as the sound of many hurried footfalls moved past his flimsy hiding spot._

 _But the respite didn't last long. Several sets of footfalls turned down and into the alley where he hid. His hunters were overzealous and they'd been that way throughout his flight through the town, his desperate escape from the tavern. But it was over now; he'd effectively cornered himself. It was a blind alley that he had turned into out of desperation. Taking the only exit would put him right into the arms of his pursuers. And there were far too many of them for him to fight his way through. His breath caught slightly as his mind whirled… Well, there was no traditional way out._

 _Gilan turned his attention upward. This town was fairly well established, meaning that most of the houses had shingle roofs instead of the customary thatch. He tried to shove the pain aside and started to climb._

 _The solitary Ranger watched the chaotic scene that had exploded through the town unseen. His eyes had followed the mass of men flooding out from the tavern like disturbed bees from a hive. And he watched also the person who was obviously responsible for stirring up the proverbial hornet's nest. He'd followed the man's progress stealthily as he ran, desperately attempting to stay one step ahead of his pursuers._

 _He watched now as the escapee in question attained the roof of one of the buildings and then continued running, always keeping in motion, leaping from one roof to another, balancing on eves, cutting at an angle away from the men after him. Crowley followed, attempting to stay out of sight of the hunters and a little ahead of the escapee by predicating his path and cutting across some alleys. If he wasn't mistaken, the fleeing man carried a longbow and a sword—not your average gang member, if indeed that was what he was._

 _The man, by then, had nearly made it to the very edge of the town. Crowley saw him leap from one of the last roofs on the street, intending to catch the eaves of another to drop safely to the ground. He would have made it too, had not the eaves crumbled underneath his weight as he landed on them. Crowley heard the sickening crack and then watched the man plummet, hitting his leg on a rough beam on the way down. He landed hard on the street amidst a jumble of broken mesentery. He lay still where he had fallen until the sounds of his pursuers became more audible. At the sound, he pushed himself shakily up to his hands and knees and then awkwardly dragged himself into the shadow of the ally that ran between the buildings he had just tried to clear._

 _Crowley, after a moment's hesitation, moved towards the alley himself. The escapee had definitely caught his attention, intrigued him, and piqued his interest—and it wasn't just the weapons he carried or the way he moved and carried himself. It was also the because of the simple fact that he was being chased by none other than members of Bartoc's gang—the very crime leader and gang that Crowley had been sent to take into hand. They had grown to be a serious threat to the people of Araluen, enough of a threat to merit the attention of the few Rangers._

 _It was that fact, along with the first impression he had gained of the escaping man, that had made him track his progress and ultimately enter the alley after him. He peered through the shadows until he saw the form of the man—no, youth, he corrected himself as he got a better look at his young face—lying slumped against the wall._

 _The youth seemed to startle as he saw the pair of soft-soled boots appear in his line of vision, and then he looked up dazedly until his gaze met with the shadow of Crowley's cowl. Then, to the Ranger's surprise, he managed a grin._

 _"Hello, Ranger."_

 _Crowley crouched down so that they were at eye level and then pushed his cowl back. He saw the boy's eyes rove over his face; they were calm, intelligent, and Crowley appreciated the fact that they seemed far more intent on Crowley's eyes and expression than on his scar._

 _"Looks like you've gotten yourself into a bit of a mess, boy," Crowley said._

 _He appraised the youth before him, watching as he considered the statement for a second or two._

 _"True," the youth said finally, nodding in agreement._

 _"Exactly what happened?" Crowley asked then._

 _"I made a small tactical mistake," the youth told him, still smiling. "Wandered somewhere I shouldn't have and then didn't look before I leaped."_

 _Crowley glanced in the direction of the broken eaves, smiling faintly too now. "I think I can see that."_

 _The youth let out a short chuckle, though that died some as he grimaced and leaned his head back against the wall behind him. He groaned softly, pressing his hand into his other arm. Crowley saw that his sleeve was pretty badly bloodstained. He reached towards the boy on instinct._

 _"Let me see it?" Crowley asked carefully when the youth eyed him warily and edged back slightly._

 _He blinked and Crowley took that as permission, carefully moving the youth's hand away from the wound. He shook his head at the sight and then ripped off a piece of his own undershirt to roughly bandage it before he lost any more blood._

 _That done, Crowley became aware of the sound of many footsteps drawing nearer to them. The youth must have noticed it too; he startled slightly and tried to rise. Crowley moved so they were side by side and placed the boy's uninjured arm over his shoulder, lifting him to his feet._

 _"Why don't you come with me," Crowley said then, half carrying him away from the sound of the approaching footfalls._

 _"How could I possibly refuse?"_

 ** _~x~X~x~_**

 _Gilan lay back against the pillows as the Ranger finished stitching and then bandaging his arm. Crowley had taken him to the room in the inn that he was staying at and had been patching him up. Gilan watched the man's face as he worked, waiting for him to ask the inevitable questions. He was fairly positive that the Ranger hadn't helped him just out of kindness—though, to be fair, he had shown more of that than Gilan had expected._

 _In fact, Gilan had found himself quite liking the Ranger. He had taken in the man's stance and bearing and was impressed, to say the least. He was also clever and had a good sense of humor. To add to that, the man had quite probably saved his life and Gilan felt he owed him something, no matter what the Ranger's true motives had been. Crowley cleared his throat._

 _"So, boy, exactly why was all of Bartoc's gang after you?"_

 _And there it was. Gilan smiled to himself._

 _"I was never a part of their gang_ — _if that's what you're wondering," he told the Ranger mildly._

 _Crowley seemed to consider him for a moment thoughtfully. "No," he said finally, "I didn't really think that you were." Then he smiled slightly and added, "You don't really look the type."_

 _"Oh? And what type is that?" Gilan asked curiously_

 _"Well, most of them tend not to fall off roofs," Crowley said, teasing sparkling in his eyes._

 _Gilan grinned at the barb, raising an eyebrow. "Most of them couldn't even figure out how to get on a roof in the first place."_

 _Crowley chuckled. "I won't argue on that count." His smile faded a little. "That still doesn't explain what you were doing in their territory—on their doorstep even."_

 _"I was…_ looking _for someone."_

 _Crowley caught the insinuation and frowned slightly._

 _"You're a bounty hunter?" he asked, just the barest trace of disapproval in his voice._

 _It seemed Rangers didn't have a much better opinion of mercenaries than knights did, Gilan thought._

 _"Bounty hunting isn't illegal," Gilan shrugged, "I didn't break any laws…I usually don't," he added mildly. "As I said, I have nothing to do with Bartoc's gang or Bartoc. I was after one of his lackeys—I just didn't know he was a lackey at the time. Would you…" He pointed to his leather satchel that Crowley had set aside on the table when they came in._

 _Crowley handed it to him. Gilan nodded his thanks as he rummaged through it, retracting a paper. He handed it to the Ranger. It was a bounty notice, Crowley saw._

 _"I had no idea that he was working for Bartoc. I tracked him form Falk Village about eighteen or so kilometers to the north. I caught up to him when he entered the town and accidentally wandered straight into the gang's meeting place tailing him. I only realized my mistake when it was too late." He frowned then, angry at himself and his carelessness. "If I'd just been a little less hasty and more aware of my surroundings…" he trailed. Then he looked up at Crowley who seemed lost in thought. "You're after Bartoc and his gang, aren't you?"_

 _Crowley nodded after a pause. "Yes. They've grown to be a big enough problem to attract the attention of the King."_

 _Gilan nodded. It made sense; Bartoc's gang was gaining quite a reputation, and it wasn't a good one._

 _"I was actually hoping, when I first saw you, that you might have been a deserter or someone Bartoc wanted out of his band. I've been hoping to get some accurate intelligence on their numbers, or the interior of that tavern they use as their base… I suppose this means I'll just have to get it myself, the hard way." He sighed._

 _"I can give you that," Gilan offered instantly, sitting up. "I can give you a description of the layout of the tavern, the numbers of his men—at least the ones I came across—as well as some information I heard when I was in there."_

 _"And I suppose you want something in return then?" Crowley said, a little acerbically._

 _Gilan nodded._

 _"Thought as much," Crowley said then. A mercenary was a mercenary after all—even if that mercenary happened to be very young, Crowley thought as he waited for Gilan to state his terms. When they came, the Ranger found himself mildly surprised._

 _"I want Bartoc's gang off the streets too."_

 _"What? No interest in money?" he asked, a genuine smile touching his face._

 _"Money?" Gilan said, shaking his head and moving his hand in a negative gesture, as if brushing that notion aside. "After you got me off the streets and patched me up? If anything, I owed you—until just now that is. I'll call us even."_

 _"In that case," Crowley said, holding out his hand, "you have a deal."_

 _Gilan took the offered hand._

 _"I'm working with a knight and some of his men at arms," Crowley added. "It would be more efficient if I bring him here and we discuss the details together—it'll save time repeating things."_

 _Gilan shrugged. "Fine by me."_

 _"You stay here and rest while I fetch him then?" Crowley asked, smiling._

 _"I can do that," Gilan said agreeably._

 _Crowley nodded. "I'll ask for the innkeeper to have some food brought up for you. I don't know how long I'll be."_

 _"That suits me," Gilan grinned, and then added more seriously, "Thank you."_

 _Crowley brushed off the thanks. "No, thank you. Any intelligence you can give us could prove to be invaluable. Just ask the innkeeper or one of the maids if you need anything."_

 _Gilan nodded and Crowley left. As soon as the Ranger was gone, Gilan scooted off the bed to retrieve the quill pen, ink, and sheets of paper he saw on the writing desk that stood on the other side of the room. He sat back on the bed and began making notes, drawing a chart of the tavern's layout while the details were still fresh in his mind. The notes and chart would be more than helpful when they were discussing intelligence._

 _Gilan found himself smiling; he was looking forward to working with Crowley. It was an appealing and exciting prospect. Rangers fascinated him—they always had. Perhaps he could even learn something from their partnership. To add to that, it had been a while since he'd had any worthwhile company and a really worthwhile goal. Things were looking up._

 _As twilight darkened further into night, the innkeeper's wife came up with supper for him: a savory lamb stew and some freshly baked bread. It had been a long time since Gilan had had a substantial meal and he set to it with a will after thanking the woman. It was delicious._

 _He was more than halfway through both the bread and the soup, and in the middle of jotting down another note, when he heard footsteps heading up the stairs. He just made out Crowley's faint voice as he spoke to someone: the knight presumably._

 _Then Gilan stiffened as he heard the knight answer back. Although the voice was too far away for him to pick out the words, he recognized it. The food seemed to turn to ash in his mouth and lodge in his throat when he swallowed. His stomach seemed to knot itself and sink as he lost his appetite entirely._

 _He_ knew _that voice._

 _It belonged to Sir David, formerly of Caraway, now Battlemaster of Highcliff Fief. Of all the knights in all the country, Crowley had to be working with that one._

 _For a moment, so many different emotions twisted inside him that he couldn't move, could hardly even think. Then, with an effort, he shoved the tumultuous feelings down and tried to shake himself._

 _One thing was certain: he couldn't stay here. He had to find a way to get away. His heart beat more quickly in his chest as the footsteps and voices drew nearer. If he tried to make it out the door, he'd be spotted immediately; that way was out of the question. Then his eyes lit upon the only other possible escape route: the window. It only had shutters to close against the outside. He flung them open. It was a two-story drop, but it was his only option._

 _He moved quickly to gather his belongings, accidentally spilling the ink bottle on the floor in his haste. He stuffed the rest of the uneaten bread into his satchel. Then he hesitated for a moment over the papers. The last thing he wanted was to leave some trace of himself… but Crowley needed them, and Gilan wanted him to have them. He was grateful, at that moment, that the stab wound in his arm had forced him to write with his less dominant left hand: his handwriting wasn't as recognizable that way. With a little luck, it might not leave much of a trace. He left the papers._

 _He moved back towards the window, tossed his bow and quiver to the ground and then stepped out onto the sill, crouching there. He turned on the precariously small space and closed the window shutters just as the footsteps reached the door. He heard a knock and nearly jumped at the sound. As he heard it, he moved so that he hung from the sill by his good arm and then dropped. He landed upon the eaves of the first story window. The moment feet touched, he leaped off it in a half spin. He landed, facing away from the window and rolled to lessen the impact. Never the less, it still jarred his bruised leg. He leaped up from the roll in one continuous movement, bent to pick up his bow and quiver from where he'd tossed them and continued his slightly limping run forwards until he was folded into the reaching shadows of the night and trees around the village._

 _When Crowley heard no response to the knock, he pushed the door open, only to see that the room was empty. There was no sign of the boy or any of his things anywhere._

 _"He's gone," Crowley said, unnecessarily._

 _Sir David thought that he could almost hear what sounded to be disappointment in his friend's words._

 _"Maybe he got cold feet," David suggested, stepping into the room after him._

 _But the Ranger, who was looking around the room keenly, disagreed._

 _"I think something must have spooked him. He left in a hurry." He gestured to the unfinished soup and the spilled ink bottle. He bent and touched the bed. "And he left fairly recently; the bed's still warm." He shook his head slightly. "We must have just missed him."_

 _"So this proved to be a wasted trip and effort then," Sir David said, sighing slightly. "Shame, the information he had could have been useful."_

 _But again Crowley shook his head. "Not entirely." He pulled several sheets of paper from the small bedside table. "It looks as if he left us all the information he promised."_

 _He passed the detailed notes and chart to David. The knight's eyebrows went up in surprise as he saw them._

 _"He seems quite a bit more… articulate than the average peasant or soldier turned sell-sword."_

 _David's brow furrowed in a small frown of concentration, there was something about the faintly messy handwriting that seemed familiar to him… But, the longer he looked, the more he felt certain he'd been mistaken. He brushed the thought aside, closing his eyes briefly against the accompanying ache that had taken hold of his heart because of it._

 _Crowley didn't seem to have noticed. Instead, he nodded in response to David's earlier remark._

 _"That's another reason that I believed his story and was so interested in him. In fact, when I first saw him, I mistook him for a Ranger for a few seconds. I think that perhaps he might be the son of one of the Rangers of the old guard that died or were displaced in the early years of the war. He wasn't suspicious or afraid of me when we met—and it wasn't because of fool's pride or arrogance."_

 _"Did you get his name by any chance? That might help you find him."_

 _"No," Crowley sighed. "And I don't have the time to try and track him down."_

 _"Pity he didn't stick around then."_

 _"Yes," Crowley agreed. "It is."_

 **~x~X~x~**

 _Present Day_

 **~x~X~x~**

Gilan reached a hand into the pack that had contained their food supplies and frowned. He was certain that he'd had ten carrots. He remembered counting them when he taken them from the edge of a farmer's field. Now there were only seven. He frowned again.

A couple of days ago, he might have brushed it off as his having miscounted them. But the carrots had not been the only things from his stores that seemed to have lessened, ever so slightly, in their amount since they had left Aspiene Fief. His eyes narrowed for a moment before he shrugged. It didn't really matter all that much for what he was doing now. He selected four carrots and began chopping them into smaller pieces before adding them to the stewpot he'd placed over the fire.

"Gil!" Horace and Will called happily as they burst back into camp.

"What is it?" Gilan looked up from the cook pot, offering a smile of greeting to both of them.

"We checked the town notice board like you said, and we found a really good one!" Will finished, "job, I mean." He held out a bounty notice from the small stack in his hands.

Horace nodded excitedly. "The price they're offering for his capture is 80 gold coins. It's the best one that Will and I could find."

Gilan's eyebrows lifted at that, the interest plain on his face.

"Where is it?" he asked, holding out his hand for the notice which Will handed to him enthusiastically.

"It's in Highcliff Fief," Will said. "That's just on the eastern border of this fief… right?"

Will tailed off when he thought he saw Gilan tense, almost flinch, at the mention of Highcliff Fief. And, for the briefest of moments, he also thought he saw the trace of something different... hard and somehow cold, creep into Gilan's eyes and expression. But it was gone so quickly that it left Will uncertain that he had really even seen it. Gilan's expression was unreadable to Will now as he scanned the parchment quickly before setting it aside. Then he smiled.

"What else did you find?"

Will and Horace exchanged quick glances, more than a little disappointed and confused that Gilan was dismissing their find so easily. Finally, Will spoke up.

"What's wrong with the Highcliff contract?" he ventured.

"Nothing," Gilan replied cheerfully. "It's just that I don't ever travel to Highcliff Fief." He shrugged.

"Never?" Again the two boys exchanged glances, puzzled. Based on what they knew of Gilan, they'd been under the impression that he traveled freely through the King's, and even Morgarath's, land. Will gave Horace a silent gesture that it was his turn to question Gilan.

Horace hesitated and then. "Can we ask why, Sir?" That last honorific he'd added unconsciously and so he corrected himself, "I mean, Gilan?"

Gilan hesitated a moment before he leaned forward and fixed them with a serious look. "You mean you haven't heard?" he asked them.

"Heard what?" Will and Horace asked in unison, leaning forwards in turn.

"Heard about the beast of Highcliff Fief of course," Gilan said.

Both shook their heads, eyes wide and earnest. They didn't notice how the corners of Gilan's mouth had twitched slightly, or how his eyes flickered for a brief moment before he regained composure.

"It's a terrible monster that terrorizes the borders of the Fief," he said earnestly.

"What kind of beast?" Horace asked nervously. Both he and Will were, by now, enthralled by his words.

"Nobody really knows what it is because nobody that's seen it is left alive. The only thing people can agree on is that it's absolutely deadly."

Will tried very hard to suppress a shudder.

"That's why you don't go to Highcliff?" he asked, his voice hardly above a whisper.

Gilan nodded solemnly. Will was about to ask more questions, but listened on instead as his friend continued.

"It's because all the victims of this beast have two things in common." He paused and it was Horace who asked the inevitable question.

"What's that?"

"They were all highly intelligent and incredibly good looking," Gilan said and both boys failed again to notice the sudden mischief dancing in his eyes.

"They were?" Will asked confused.

"Oh yes, they were. See, you two could probably get through with little enough trouble; but me?" he shook his head, "I'd never make it past alive."

It took a moment, but first Will and then Horace a little after, realized that Gilan had been having them on the entire time. With a howl, Will, followed quickly by Horace, flung himself at Gilan, wrestling him playfully to the ground—a feat that proved not to be too difficult because Gilan was far too busy laughing to defend himself.

"You take that back!" Will said, grinning himself. "You're twice as ugly as us!"

"I don't know about that. The two of you together are enough to give anyone nightmares," Gilan shot back and then burst into helpless laughter again. "Your faces," he snorted, "priceless."

"It wasn't that funny," Horace said, a little miffed as he rose, as dignified as he could, off of Gilan's chest, Will following.

"Yes, it was," Gilan chuckled, rising to his feet to pick up the notices that had been scattered by their horseplay, his quick eyes scanning the parchments. "Look at this," he said suddenly. "There are two notices here: one for 50 gold coins and one for 34. That's more than the other, and we won't even have to leave this fief."

Will and Horace nodded quickly in agreement before Will's face screwed up slightly as he added the numbers in his head. There was only a 4 gold coin difference. Did Gilan really care that much about 4 gold coins? He glanced at Horace who had obviously made the same calculation in his head. They both shrugged, deciding to follow Gilan's lead. He was far more experienced than they were, after all.

"We'll strike camp early tomorrow morning and head out," Gilan decided. Then he glanced back at the cook pot, smiling brightly. "And there's enough time before supper's finished for you both to get in some extra practice."

Horace and Will let out simultaneous groans; they knew that that wasn't a suggestion.

The next day found them traveling down one of the kingdom's main roads, heading north. It had been fairly quiet and peaceful for the past hour or so, which made it all the more noticeable when the forest ahead of them suddenly exploded with sound.

 **~x~X~x~**

Crowley sat easily in the saddle as Cropper made his quick and steady way down one of the kingdom's main roads. By traveling in the Ranger's forced march, he'd managed to make it to one of border fiefs in a little under a week. He knew that, if he kept this pace, he'd be able to reach the border by evening.

The path he was headed down was shadowed by the overhanging branches of trees. Sporadically, a lacy shifting patch of light would filter to the ground as the canopies overhead moved in the wind. As he turned around a bend in the road, his direction of travel shifted enough so that the wind was now coming from behind him. Crowley knew that that was something he needed to be aware of. Cropper wouldn't be able to scent anyone ahead of him.

This stretch of the road was even darker than it had been before. It was this, coupled with the direction of the wind, that was beginning to make an uneasy feeling take hold in his chest. It was a feeling that only grew when Crowley realized something else. As he'd been riding earlier, he had been traveling with a fairly constant background noises: the chirp of birds, the chatter of squirrels, and hum of bugs. But this stretch of the road has no such sounds. There was a distinct absence of noise: as if something had disturbed this stretch of woods. Even as he had the thought, the trees shifted in the wind again and a glittering patch of light shone off something thin and out of place in the road.

His eyes widened as he realized what it was. Someone had stretched a tripwire across the path. It was an occasionally used gambit favored by roadside bandits. The tripwire, if unnoticed would, trip any horse or rider who didn't see it in time, often injuring or killing both horse and rider if they were going fast enough. The thieves would then just swoop in and steal whatever goods they could get their hands on.

In the very moment Crowley realized the foreign object for what it was, he drew sharply, desperately, on the reins, bringing Cropper to such an abrupt skidding stop that the horse was forced onto his hind legs in a rear. Cropper stopped mere centimeters from the deadly tripwire, but the force and suddenness of it threw Crowley from the saddle. He fell backward, hard, catching the back of his head on a rock.

His vision went black at the edges and burst with stars before it cleared a little. His head swam and that seemed to transfer to all of his senses, making everything thing seem slightly distorted. Dimly, he was aware of the shouts of men—the bandits presumably, as they broke cover to finish him off and relieve him of his possessions—and of Cropper neighing and rearing—this time at the approaching men in an attempt to protect his fallen rider. Crowley tried to get up, tried to get a hold of one of his weapons but his movements were slow and clumsy.

Cropper managed to successfully distract and keep the bandits at bay long enough for Crowley to draw his saxe, but he was still in trouble. Cropper danced nimbly away from a wild sword swipe from one of the bandit's rusty blades. While two men were distracted by Cropper, the other three came for Crowley. Crowley tried to rise and fight them off but was still dazed.

Suddenly, he became aware of the sounds of arrows being released from bows and two bandits went down with arm wounds. There came the sound of a brief scuffle, the ring of steel on steel. Then he saw the bandits fleeing, taking their wounded with them.

A shadow passed over Crowley and he looked up to see a figure standing over him. Dimly he was able to make out the shape of a young man dressed as a woodsman and two boys a ways behind him, one armed with a bow and the other with a sword. He blinked and his vision started to clear, as the spinning in his head died down. The face that was looking down at him seemed familiar. Then it clicked into place as the young man spoke.

"Hello, Ranger."

Crowley recalled the boy he'd helped those years ago when he'd been trying to take Bartoc's gang to heel. He felt himself relaxing and he put his saxe back in its sheathe. Gilan, for his part, had recognized the Ranger as soon as he had laid eyes on him.

"You know," Gilan said airily as he looked down, "I think that last time we met it was the other way around."

Crowley nodded his agreement a little despondently. "I think I might have liked it better that way."

"I didn't," Gilan said honesty, smiling faintly as he helped the Ranger to his feet.

Crowley couldn't help but chuckle at that. He swayed slightly as he regained his feet so Gilan kept his hand on the Ranger's shoulder until he seemed steady enough.

"You certain you're alright?" Gilan asked.

Crowley nodded and then wished he hadn't as it set his head to aching again. He was certain he had a pretty nasty lump there.

"I'll be fine. I just have an absolutely aching head," he admitted unhappily, brushing the concern away. "It could have been a lot worse if you hadn't happened by. Thank you," he said reaching out to clasp arms gratefully with the young mercenary and nodding at his two young companions. Then a warm smile grew on his face. "But the real question we should be asking is about you."

Gilan saw no need to reply other than tilting his head curiously.

"Have you fallen off any roofs lately?" Crowley asked innocently.

Gilan tried to hide a smile as he seemed to think about that, counting absently on his fingers as he seemed to recall incidences. "Oh, and I can't forget the one in Saldor," he said before looking up, not bothering to hide his grin anymore as he announced his final count, "that brings it to a grand total of _none_. Which, I'm guessing, is about the same number of gang leaders you've managed to take to heel."

"Is that so? You know, most people wouldn't consider it wise or politic to insult a Ranger," Crowley said solemnly, trying to stifle a chuckle.

Will who had been watching the byplay between the two men with wide eyes, nodded in agreement with the Ranger's words, wishing Gilan would be more careful. Everyone knew that Rangers were dangerous and black magicians. It was dangerous enough just being near one, let alone insulting him. And this one looked especially fierce and dangerous with that jagged scar across his face.

In a glance, Will could tell that Horace was very nearly as uneasy as he was. But Gilan only laughed, not seeming troubled by the Ranger or his scar in the slightest. At that, Will relaxed the tension in his shoulders a little. Perhaps this Ranger wasn't quite as terrifying as others. He did look friendly enough, and Gilan seemed to know and trust him.

Crowley had seen the slight motion of Will's head and turned his attention back to the two boys behind Gilan.

"Made a couple of friends since last time, I see." Then a thought struck him. "Still in the business of hunting bounties, are you? And likely spreading your bad habits to these two. Don't know what they did to deserve that," he teased.

Gilan's grin widened. "And what about you? Is there another gang roaming about?"

Crowley's expression turned grim at the mention. "No, I'm afraid I've been sent to deal with something a little more serious than even that. And I'm in a bit of a hurry. I need to be miles south of here before sundown." As soon as he'd said it, he called Cropper to him.

As much as he might have liked to catch up with the mercenary, he knew he didn't have the time at the moment. He didn't want to seem ungrateful or insult the young man by leaving so abruptly, but he really didn't have much choice at the moment. The mercenary, however, seemed to understand.

"Don't let us keep you then," he said. Then his smile turned knowing he added. "I'd head further east before I'd try to cross the border. The patrols are not as tight there and there are more places where it is easier to breach. If you have the time to travel one or two fiefs to the east, you wouldn't regret it."

Crowley finished mounting Cropper, settled in the saddle, and looked sharply at the young mercenary.

"I don't recall anyone saying anything about crossing the border."

The mercenary merely shrugged. "There's nothing else south of here that would interest a Ranger."

Crowley looked with new interest at the young bounty hunter, remembering some of his thoughts from the last time they had crossed paths.

"If you ever make it north to the King Duncan's fortress, do me a favor and ask for me," he found himself saying on impulse. "You and your two young friends would be welcome. After all, I think I owe you now."

He saw the young mercenary smile and nod once at him. He and the two boys raised a hand in farewell as Crowley urged Cropper back into a gallop. It only occurred to him, when he was several kilometers down the path, that he had once again neglected to catch the young bounty hunter's name.

 **~x~X~x~**

Halt stood on the deck of the ship, gripping the railing tightly. A gentle breeze ruffled his salt and pepper hair. Everywhere was quiet except for the muttered conversations of a few of the sailors manning the ship. Everyone else, including Evanlyn was asleep. Because the ship had left port so late, night had already fallen. But the captain estimated that they would probably make the coast of Araluen within the hour. Halt felt his stomach twist as the thought, the feeling adding itself to the nauseous one already there. All around him was a world of stars, made more bright and brilliant by the fact that there was no moon; but he had no eyes for the beauty. It was hard enough trying to keep his stomach from betraying him.

Halt was seasick. There was no going around it. It was something he had learned always happened to him during the first several hours of sea travel. He knew it was purely mental. It took both him and his mind a while to get used to the lurching, heaving, and tossing of the ship against the waves. But once he did, he was fine.

Usually, the seasickness would have passed by now—but this time it was different. He had a vaguely uneasy feeling that it was because that, this time, the feeling was due to more than just the tossing of the sea. Every kilometer brought him closer to the Araluen coastline, closer to the uncomfortable knowledge that he did not know what he would find there—and a very small corner of his mind was reluctant _to_ find out. There was sometimes a sort of avoidant, oblivious, peace in ignorance. He frowned as he thought it, snorting softly at the ridiculousness of the notion, roughly trying to shove the thoughts and the seasick feeling away simultaneously. That kind of thinking wouldn't help Araluen, or the people he'd been forced to leave behind.

He let his eyes wander towards the direction he knew the coast was situated. He could just make out the twinkle of lights up ahead, and the beacon fire of the port town. He fixed his gaze on them, watching as they gradually grew larger. The captain pulled on the tiller, changing the ship's direction slightly so that they were headed straight towards them.

As Halt watched, he became aware of an uncertain feeling brushing at the back of his mind. Something wasn't right. The more he looked, the more he thought that it had something to do with the town ahead. Even though it had not been in this time, Halt had sailed into this particular port a few times before. He narrowed his eyes as he tried to pinpoint what it was, but the nauseous feeling wasn't helping him think.

Then he had it. He didn't recall the jetty, where the beacon was burning, ever being so high. It was true that, in this time, the town could have changed it's configuration; but he doubted that a massive landform would have.

There was also no moon tonight.

As soon as Halt realized it, he put two and two together. Moondarkers. He swore.

"Pull the ship about!" he yelled, letting go of the railing, and running towards the tiller where the captain stood.

The man looked surprised and even a little annoyed at Halt's interruption, though that look faded into one of pale-faced fear and uncertainty at Halt's next words.

"That's a false beacon!"

"Are you certain?" the captain asked, seemingly in a near frozen stupor by Halt's claim.

"Of course I am!" Halt shouted, half ready to take the tiller from the man and try to turn the ship about himself. He has started moving to do just that when the captain seemed to shake himself and heaved on the tiller, shouting orders to his men.

Evanlyn, who had been awakened by Halt's shout, made her way to his side.

"What's going o—" she started to ask, but never finished.

The ship lurched violently to a sudden crashing stop. The captain hadn't managed to turn her around in time and she slammed side on into the hidden shoals. Her hull was immediately bashed inwards; splintered wood flew in all directions. Halt and Evanlyn were sent flying hard into the rough planks of the deck. There was a horrible crunching rending sound as the wood planking twisted and snapped. The sailors and the passengers started screaming as the ship began to break apart and fill with water. Halt only just managed to grab Evanlyn by the back of her cloak in an attempt to keep them together as they were folded into the icy, inky-black, sea.

* * *

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading! Reviews are always very much appreciated; they help feed the muse. XD I know I said last week that this chapter would focus mainly on Halt and Evanlyn, but I had to do some rearranging to help with the flow and it ended up being a little different than I had initially planned. But, next chapter, they will definitely be the main focus. XD

I wish you all the very best! Until next time!


	13. Chapter 12

**A/N:** Hey guys! I hope you all are doing well! I'm finally back, and super glad to be. I just finished my last class of summer school last week and so finally have had time for writing again. (Sorry again for the delay.)

 **Random Flyer** : Thanks so much for the review and the encouragement! It has indeed been a challenge, but a lot of fun at the same time. I'm glad everything seems logical (that was my hope) XD. It certainly could happen that way—Gilan definitely doesn't want anything to do with the authorities after all and he Will and Horace are growing quite close X). I've got several ideas for how it will all go down too, and I'm excited to get there.

 **Ranger-of-the-shadows** : Thanks so much! I will answer part of that question within the next couple chapters—and part of that answer will have quite a bit of bearing with the main conflict later too.

 **M.T** : Thanks so much for the reviews! I do apologize for taking so long to update, but I hope this chapter and the next can help make up for the wait.

 **ApplePower** : Thanks for the review and the compliments it means a lot. That chapter was one of my favorites to write so far (for that reason) XD

 **On A Page** : Thanks for the compliment and the review! Also thanks for catching that mistake, I really appreciate it. I made certain to fix it.

 **KingTritium** : Thanks for the input, I really appreciate it! And thanks for catching those mistakes, I made sure to fix them. I actually did make Gilan's age very vague on purpose: this is because his age is one of the several inaccuracies/inconsistencies that exists throughout the series like Duncan's eye color, Blaze's gender, how Halt likes his coffee, the exact shade of Crowley's hair, whether or not Will has/can have a mirror etc. Throughout the entire series (in several different books) there are no less than three different age ranges to choose from (which I could cite/quote if you wish) that could put his age anywhere from 20-27—hence my vagueness XD why does everything have to be so hard? XD Thanks again!

 **jaymzNshed** : I hope to answer a little bit of that question in the next couple of chapters. Also, some things about his past are going to be tied up with the main conflict a little later in the story too. Thanks for the support!

 **TrustTheCloak** : Awww :3 thanks so much for the compliment and the review. There will be more revealed about Gilan's past next couple of chapters that can hopefully answer a few of the questions, and his past does have a bit of a bearing on the main conflict so questions will be answered.

 **Dragonslover98** : Don't worry! Their chances of meeting up again are pretty big XD Thanks so much for the review!

Also Special thanks to **Ranger-Corpses** , **Guest** , and **Rubyya** , I really appreciate the support.

* * *

 **Chapter 12: The Dark of the Moon Part II**

 **~x~X~x~**

The icy water churned around Halt and Evanlyn in a heaving mass. Debris was scattered about, bobbing as it too was lifted and lowered by the waves. All this only added to the confusion. The shouts and screams of the sailors and passengers mingled with the cries and shouts of the Moondarkers on the beach as they headed into the water to retrieve the cargo and goods that were being pulled to shore by the tide—same as the people. Halt cursed.

Already, he could see several of the passengers and sailors—those who could swim or had found something to keep themselves afloat—drawing nearer to the shore, pulled by the tide and by their hope of making it to land. But they were heading to a fate that was quite possibly worse than drowning.

Halt was familiar with how Moondarkers operated. If they were ruthless enough to risk taking lives by sinking ships for snatches of cargo, then they certainly wouldn't have any qualms about taking the lives of any survivors who made it to shore. Halt had seen it before—far too many times. It was far less risky and cleaner for the Moodarkers to simply get rid of any, and all, witnesses to their crime.

Halt opened his mouth to try and shout a warning but was pushed under the surface by a wave. He only succeeded in getting a lungful of water. When his head broke the surface again, he coughed and spluttered. As he tried to regain his breath, he realized with a start that he had let go of Evanlyn.

Still coughing, he looked frantically around at the debris-strewn water, searching for a specific bobbing head. The desperate nature of the situation, as well as the panic bubbling in his chest, made him want to search quickly and heedlessly in every direction. But he forced himself to calm as he swept the water slowly in a steady pattern: it was his best chance of finding her again. He carefully moved, turning in a slow circle as he tread water and scanned for her.

For a long while, there was nothing. Then he caught sight of short blond hair, stained a grey color by the night. He quickly swam in that direction. She was meters away from him, her head turning back and forth as she looked anxiously about her—no doubt searching for him. Every second she drew closer and closer to shore and the danger that awaited her there. He swam faster, coming up behind her. He reached out and grabbed her by the back of her tunic, pulling her towards him. She startled and tried to struggle until he called out to her.

"Halt!" she gasped, quickly turning around to face him, relief curbing the terror that had paled her cheeks.

"Tread water with me and don't… swim towards the shore!" he called to her, interrupted momentarily by another rolling wave.

She nodded, eyes wide. Halt tried to take stock of their position. They couldn't swim to shore and they couldn't just stay out in the open water either. The beach of the cove that the wreckers had chosen was surrounded on both sides by chalky-like cliffs. Those cliffs, he knew, stretched for a good way in either direction, probably too far for Evanlyn to swim—perhaps even too far for him to swim. They also could not try to swim for the cliffs themselves and attempt to climb; they were too crumbly. It would be no use avoiding death at the hands of the men on the beach only to find it by falling or drowning.

All those thoughts flashed through his mind as he took stock of the beach. It appeared that most of the fighting was taking place near the middle and to the far right side. If he and Evanlyn could swim to the far left side, they might make it ashore, might be able to cross the beach and make it to the tree-line before they were spotted by the Moondarkers.

Decided, he turned to Evanlyn and realized he'd have to amend his plan to account for a few more people. Four sailors, who had seen the growing carnage on the beach, had hung back and were only meters away from Halt and Evanlyn. He couldn't very well leave them to die. Halt beckoned them closer in between a few dips of high waves around them and told them his plan.

 **~x~X~x~**

Cordell, former Baron of Araluen, looked over the work of the Moondarkers with a critical eye. His small contingent of knights and fighting men stood beside him, awaiting his orders. Ever since he'd given up the rule of his fief—a choice he had made when he'd finally sided with Morgarath—he had become one of Morgarath's most prolific lieutenants. It wasn't the same as ruling his own barony, that was true. But the riches and promises Morgarath made—when combined with the fact that he hated King Duncan—was far enough compensation for him.

Cordell stood near the Moodarkers leader, watching as the man directed his men into fetching the cargo that was washing ashore and, more importantly, destroying any of the men from the ship that managed to make it to land. It was cleaner that way. And it worked well in slowing news of their activities, and so the threat of retaliation. Already, a battle had broken out in the shallows and on the beach and it only grew from there.

Morgarath had a loose alliance with the Moodarkers. He would let them work on the coasts of his lands in return for a cut of the profits. It had become a highly profitable venture for both parties. And their success had led them into Duncan's lands: just a few kilometers north of the border. It was a calculated plan to try and expand their reach. They had been at it for several months and so far, and had encountered no obstacles, no retaliation from Duncan.

Because Morgarath had a stake in this, he had sent Cordell and several of his men to supervise and back the Moondarkers. As the battle grew more heated and angry, Cordell decided that it was time for him to lend the Moondarkers some support in their fight. His raised his sword and then lowered it: the signal for his men to move in. He stood back, watching the battle.

As he did so, he suddenly became aware that a few of the ship's crew had swum further out to the farthest edge of the beach where the battle wasn't raging, likely in an attempt to slip away. With a shout, he directed some of his men in that direction and charged towards them to cut them off. They met in a ringing clash of arms and shouts as his men and the sailors fought.

Suddenly Cordell found himself face to face with a small grizzled looking bearded man and a boy. Their faces were lit slightly by the flickering light of the false beacon fire and torches. Cordell narrowed his eyes and did a double take at the boy—realizing that it wasn't a boy at all. Cordell had been a high ranking nobleman who had worked with the king for many years before he finally joined Morgarath's camp, and so he recognized the _girl_ standing before him.

"You!" he breathed.

She was no sailor, but rather the Crown Princess of Araluen herself. How she had come to be here when she was supposed to be in Gallica he had no idea, but he knew one thing for certain, and that was that Morgarath badly wanted her. He had even made a deal with a Gallic Warlord to try and get her for himself. Cordell knew also that, if he caught her, he could well swing the tides of the war in his lord's favor—not to mention how much further that would engender him into his lord's good graces. He narrowed his eyes greedily and called out swiftly to his men at arms, calling them away from the useless sailors and towards the girl and the small bearded man who was at her side.

Halt, Evanlyn, and the four sailors had only managed to make it halfway up the far left side of the beach before they were spotted. A knight called to several soldiers around him and Halt watched with dread as they broke off from the main group to head them off. The dread only increased when he caught sight of the emblem emblazoned on the knight's surcoat. The fabric had caught in the firelight as he charged to reveal a jagged lightning bolt over a field of black.

Halt called a warning to the four sailors near them, and they all drew their weapons. Halt's hand itched to be able to use his bow, but all his time in the water had stretched the string so much so that it would be nearly useless. He had waxed the string to protect it from water, of course, but not even the wax could have helped considering how long he'd been submerged. All he had left were his two knives, so he drew these, after pushing Evanlyn behind him.

He and one of the soldiers met. The soldier swung a vicious overhead strike a Halt. The grizzled Ranger allowed himself a minimal movement to the side. The soldier's strike flew wide; Halt's body simply was not where the man expected it to be. The soldier stumbled forwards, off balance, leaving himself open for a counterattack.

Halt turned away from the now fallen man to face the next one. He was aware of the other soldiers facing off against the four sailors. There were six soldiers left standing and Halt and the sailors were holding them grimly back. There came the sound of a cry and one of the sailors fell, just as Halt took down another of the soldiers. They still had a chance… that was until a sharp order from the knight called his men away from the sailors to have them all converge on Halt and Evanlyn instead.

Out of the corner of his eye, Halt saw the sailors, now that they were free from the press of enemies, quickly turn tail and run—intent on taking their chance to save themselves. Halt was now effectively cut off from the safety of the woodlands, left to face the press of warriors on his own. He took a breath, straightening as he took stock of the men facing him: including the knight on horseback. He tried to ignore the growing sinking feeling in his gut in favor of focusing only on protecting Evanlyn and finding a way to get them out of this mess. He didn't know for certain why all the men had suddenly converged on him, but his gut told him it was because the lead knight had somehow recognized Evanlyn as Princess Cassandra. It was the only thing that made sense.

He readied his two knives as the first soldier charged. He swayed to the side to avoid the sword stroke, rolling under the next and getting inside of the man's reach to make the length of his sword a hindrance rather than an advantage. Once Halt was inside the man's reach, the soldier was unable to block as Halt struck forwards with his saxe. The man fell and Halt moved to intercept the next two who were trying to outflank him.

As he was grappling with those two, another tried to take him from the side—only to fall back with a cry, clutching at his left eye. Halt caught a glimpse of Evanlyn reloading her sling. Had there been time, he would have praised her, impressed with how she was handling the situation and herself. But there was none.

One of the two soldiers he'd been grappling with attacked again. The man had an axe and Halt, armed as he was with only two knives, knew he was at a distinct disadvantage. The best he'd been able to do was dodge that man's attacks. Halt decided he really needed to do something about that. He noticed the wooden haft of the axe as he blocked another soldier's sword stroke. Narrowing his eyes, he slipped his throwing knife into its sheath. When the axe man drew back for a downward strike, Halt took a step forwards, and then swayed minimally to the side. He caught the haft of the man's axe with this left hand and held it firmly in place for the milliseconds it took for him to bring his saxe knife down upon the wood with all the strength he had.

The force of the blow, and the sharpness of his blade, severed the head from the axe and it fell harmlessly to the ground. The man stared dumbly at his ruined weapon, but neither of them had the time to dwell on that. Halt could see that the remaining three soldiers, and the lead knight, had been moving inexorably forward to flank him. Halt kicked hard at the axeman's knee. He fell with a cry and Halt turned to engage the others, aware of the whirring of Evanlyn's sling. One man stumbled back slightly as a stone hit his arm, but it did not deter him for long. He kept coming. Then there was a clang as another of her stones bounced harmlessly off the lead knight's helm.

Halt had his hands full, his heartbeat accelerating as he recognized how dire the situation was becoming—how many near misses he was encountering. Something needed to happen, or change, because he knew he wouldn't be able to keep this up much longer. So intent was he on trying to defend both himself and Evanlyn from so many sides that he didn't see the axeman rise again to feet behind him. He didn't sense the blow coming until it was too late.

The broken haft of the man's axe came down hard on his back and skull. His vision exploded into stars as he crumpled to the ground. Through his wavering sight, he saw Evanlyn bowl into the axeman, knocking him down— but milliseconds too late. She took a step back, eyes wide with fear as they darted between Halt's crumpled form and their attackers. He saw her start to shake slightly as the full realization of the direness of their situation hit her before she turned to run. Halt couldn't move, could barely see through his hazy vision. All he could do was watch helplessly as the lead knight ran her down on horseback.

"No!" he wanted to scream, but it came out little louder than a choked whisper.

He watched, helpless, as the knight grabbed her by her hair. She screamed, a torn cry of fear and pain, as she was hauled bodily over the saddlebow. The last thing Halt saw before his vision went black was the knight galloping away.

When Halt came to, he realized dully that he hadn't been out for very long. The sounds of battle on the beach still carried dimly, and slightly distorted, to his ears. He cracked his eyes without moving to see the silhouettes of men moving in front of a flickering fire in the distance. He could just make out the three soldiers from earlier still around him. He heard one of them moving towards him and knew instantly that the man intended to finish him off.

Halt listened, pinpointing the man's movements and position. He could feel the hilts of his saxe and throwing knife near the fingers of each of his hands. But he didn't move until he could tell by the sound that the man was standing directly above him, weapon poised.

Halt sprang into action, going from a standstill to a flurry of movement in an eye-blink. He kicked the legs of the man standing above him out from under him and leaped to his feet, sending his saxe and his throwing knife into the chests of the two soldiers near him. They fell to the ground but Halt was already on them, regaining his two weapons in time it took for the first man to rise again to his feet.

The battle between them was short. The soldier crumpled with a soft groan to join his companions. Halt spared them hardly a glance as he tore off, heading to the southwest—in the direction that the knight had taken—directly into the lands that he knew belonged to Morgarath. He needed to find Evanlyn, get her back from the knight before it was too late.

He directed his thoughts towards the girl as he willed her to stay strong and alive. He promised silently that he would find her, promised he would get her back safely. As he ran, his head and back still throbbing, he whispered a silent apology to everyone he had once known—hoping that, if they were still alive, that they could all hold on just a bit longer; for, at this rate, it looked as if he wouldn't be finding them anytime soon.

"Sorry Will…"

 **~x~X~x~**

Crowley had taken the mercenary's advice and had traveled a fief over to the east before trying to cross the border. The young mercenary had been right; crossing the border had been fairly easy there. The woods grew very thickly in that area and there had been very few patrols. Morgarath, or perhaps more aptly, his lieutenants, obviously had decided that the woods themselves made enough of a barrier.

He stroked Cropper's neck as he looked over the farmlands before him from his hidden position in the woods. He ground his teeth slightly, his left hand clenching tightly around the reins. He was, of course, aware that Morgrath did not object to the practice of slavery in his lands, but it didn't make it any easier for Crowley to see. He moved his attention from the farmland and closer towards the village itself and his frown increased. Judging by the presence of both soldiers and wargals, it was fairly obvious that Morgarath kept his holdings under a tight fist. He tried to quell the rising heat of anger and told himself to breathe.

He'd always had a bit of a temper; a temper that had gotten him into trouble more than a few times during his apprentice years. And the sight of people being treated so cruelly only poked at the old twist of anger and resentment that Crowley had long harbored for the traitor Baron: ever since the death of his mentor. As the muscles of his face drew together in a tight scowl, he could feel the puckered edges of his scar all the more clearly. Funnily enough, that reminder did nothing to assuage the feeling.

Cropper, obviously picking up on his master's sudden distress, nosed him gently.

 _Doing something stupid right now isn't going to help._

Crowley had a good mind to push his horse's questing nose away at that, but merely let his breath out in a huff, the largest edge of his anger leaving with it. Cropper was right and he knew it.

"I know," he said softly.

 _I know you know._ Cropper nudged him again then added, _don't worry, well get him eventually._

'Eventually'… Crowley was getting so very sick and tired of that word. But it was going to have to do. What Morgarath was doing to his people was disgusting, but racing in and trying to help them and revealing himself to Morgarath wasn't going to help these people in the long run and he knew it. He was in this for the long game as much as the traitor Baron was.

"One thing's for certain," Crowley said as he eyed the village once more. "It'll probably be in our best interest to stay away from all villages and settlements if we want to play it safe."

He allowed himself one last glance at the scene before him before he melded back into woodlands, Cropper following. Already, he was taking out his map to start charting himself a safe path that would skirt any fief centers or larger settlements as he would head steadily south.

 **~x~X~x~**

Gilan watched silently as Will rose carefully from his bedroll and then froze, listening carefully for any sounds before moving one cautious step at a time forwards. His footfalls were almost completely silent as he moved instinctively with the shadows of the night—and paid strict attention to many other tips that Gilan had been teaching him. Gilan could not help but give an inward nod of approval—the boy was really good.

He watched unmoving as a Will crept towards the bag that held their provisions. Will paused near it, looked around, listened, and then moved to open it. He then proceeded to snatch several items from it and stuff them down the front of his jerkin. He then reached in for more, pulling out an onion pasty. He was about to shove that down his shirt front too when Gilan spoke.

"Unless you've a mind to spend hours scrubbing laundry, I wouldn't put that one down your shirt," he said mildly.

Will startled in shock and nearly dropped the greasy pasty. He turned towards the sound to see Gilan, sitting comfortably in the hollow between two roots not ten paces away. Will's eyes widened and he stiffened, face paling considerably.

"G-Gilan," he stammered, "I was just…just…"

"Stealing food," Gilan finished for him with a raised eyebrow, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He rose easily to his feet and took a few steps nearer Will.

"Y-yes," Will admitted, hanging his head slightly.

As soon as Gilan was nearly an arms distance from him, he saw Will cringe back a half pace, free hand clenched, face tense, every line in his body looking as if he more than half expected some unpleasant form of remonstration to descend. Gilan stopped short as he saw it, a frown growing on his face. Will saw the frown and tensed further as he misinterpreted its meaning. He was certain Gilan was angry with him, and that he was about to find himself in serious trouble.

"I-I'm sorry," Will said, his voice more than a little strained. "I'll put it back. I promise I won't steal from your bag again—"

Gilan decided that this had gone on long enough and cut Will short, feeling a sad sort of sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to reach out toward the boy, but knew that it probably wouldn't be a well received, or well advised, gesture in this moment. He instead made certain to keep himself just a little further back than arm's reach and concentrated on not making his gestures sharp, or posture threatening. Not for the first time, he found himself cursing that farmer for treating Will as he had. He guessed that Will's habit of hoarding food at meals and stealing them from the provisions at night sprang from habit. The farmer had probably often neglected Will and so he had developed the habit to survive. It was something Gilan indented to fix if he could.

"I should hope you won't steal from the provisions anymore," he said carefully. Then added with a chuckle, more softly, "Or, better put, I should hope you realize that you don't need to try and steal it."

Will looked up cautiously in surprise as Gilan said it.

"Gil?" he asked confused.

"Will, you are welcome to take what you need, whenever you need." Gilan shrugged. "Always have been… Although, I am pleased you've been practicing your stealth skills. It was impressive. With a little effort, you might learn to be half as good as me."

Will's expression went from dumbfounded to indignant to grateful and then back to indignant within the span of a second as he tried to process what had been said. Finally, he found his voice.

"Nobody told me that," he protested weakly in response to the first part.

"You never asked," Gilan pointed out.

"So you just let me sneak around instead?" Will demanded, flabbergasted.

"I was interested in seeing how you were going to go about it," Gilan said. "You've got a lot of potential."

It was obvious by the still dumbfounded look on Will's face that he still didn't quite know what to make of this all.

"So I can just get something whenever I'm hungry?" Will asked, a trace of skepticism in his words and expression—as if he expected Gilan to take it all back.

Gilan nodded. "The provisions belong to all of us."

"What about when they're low?"

Gilan smiled, pleased with the question and Will's foresight. "What do you think, Will? What would you do?"

"Be careful about them I suppose," Will said eventually, not having expected the question. Then added, "And make sure that there's enough for everyone to get equal shares."

"When they're low, we'll ration them more carefully, and decide together what we'll do about it. I'm certain there will be times when things will be hard like that—it happens when you live like this. But I can promise you that I'll try my best to make sure that we'll have what we need. Horace will probably promise that too, considering that bottomless pit he calls a stomach."

Will couldn't help but grin at that. Horace was always hungry and he did eat a lot.

"And I'm sure you'll do the same?" Gilan asked raising a questioning brow.

Will nodded seriously. "I can do that."

Gilan nodded again before gesturing to the pasty that was still in Will's hand. "Still needing a midnight snack?"

Will grinned ruefully, shaking his head. He hadn't really been hungry. He quickly replaced it and the other things he had taken before heading back to his bedroll with Gilan.

"Gilan? How did you know it was me?" he asked curiously as he settled into his blankets and re-fluffed the cloak he was using as a pillow.

"Considering that it was only after you joined that food started going missing, it was an easy enough guess," Gilan said as he too settled in for the night. "Also, I had noticed how you often set some of the food you get at meals aside. I've seen men do that before in pr…—places where food is scarce." He had stopped short fractionally before starting again as he'd said it—as if stuttering because he'd tripped over his own tongue.

Will paid it no mind, instead nodding at what Gilan had said. It made sense.

"You'll need to be a little more careful about little details like that if you're going to make a career out of stealing," Gilan said then after a pause. "I think I'd have waited a while before I started, tried hard not to make any obvious patterns and, if I knew I'd be a top suspect, I'd perhaps try to put suspicion elsewhere."

"Or you could just try _not_ stealing," Horace said indignantly. Their conversation had woken him a couple of minutes prior. He'd been silently listening, but couldn't keep silent any longer. "It's the more honorable thing to do and it'll save you all that trouble."

"Or you could do that," Gilan said agreeably.

Horace groaned, placing the bag he was using as a pillow over his head. Will snickered.

* * *

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading and sticking around for the ride! I wish you all the very best until next time! Next chapter arc will be titled "Memories and Outsiders" which will help to show exactly how many pies Morgarath has gotten his dirty little fingers in, or is aiming to get his fingers in, in this messed up world XD


	14. Chapter 13

**A/N:** Here's the next chapter! Sorry for the delay, I encountered a few problems (in life and in my writing) that slowed me down. While I was writing the chapter, it kind of exploded and went from a two-parter to a three-parter. Turns out I'd bitten off a little more than I could chew when it came to plot and logistics. XD This chapter will have a more narrow focus than usual, because it deals mostly with Horace and Will—it just kind of worked out/worked best that way. I hope nobody minds. Next chapter will deal with more characters, promise XD. Thank you all for reading :D

 **Ranger-of-the-shadows** : Thanks for the review and the compliment, I really appreciate it! The cliffhanger probably won't be resolved until next week. And everyone will probably stay in trouble for quite some time yet XD. As for your questions: I'll reveal more about Gilan's past chapter after next. But the whole story probably won't come out until about five or so more chapters in. not as fast as I would have liked to. Yes, I live for cheese and my favorite color is black XD

 **Weirdo:** Thank you so much! I try to update as soon as I can.

 **Gerbilfriend:** Yes they are XD Thanks for the review, it made my day.

 **Dragonslover98:** That makes me so happy to hear :3 I always worry about writing all their personalities right and can spend hours nitpicking dialogue X) Your question will be answered next chapter, but yes, things are shaping up to go that way. Thank you so much for the encouragement and review!

 **jaymzNshed:** Thank you! There are a few hints this chapter as to one of Morgarath's schemes, and the full implications of it, as well as some other ploys of his, will be revealed in the next couple chapters too.

 **Lilly-daughter of Radolso** : Goodness XD I should hope that by this time in my life I should be able to know the difference between a slave and a salve. Don't know if it was auto correct , carelessness, or just my dyslexia, but whichever it was I do apologize. Thanks so much for catching that mistake. Also thanks for the compliments and the well wish, it was very encouraging: and a relief to know that I'm getting the personalities right. Awww :3 really? Thank you. Will do! I actually do plan to (and am starting to work on) some original works. Again thanks!

 **Random Flyer:** Good guess! You're on the right track…although it might not play out exactly as you think X) Thanks so much for the review! It means a lot.

 **TrustTheCloak** : Ah the troubles of Gilan's age X) We should compare notes on it sometime, exchange dimes. I've been tempted to write a short fanfic/ collection of drabbles to try and justify and smooth away all those little inconsistencies many times XD I'm super excited to write Halt and Crowley together. I love them too (though I do have a weakness for bromances) Thanks so much for the review!

 **KingTritium:** Awww thanks so much! Looks like now I have to add 'Halt's bow of the changing draw weight ' to the list then XD (it's getting pretty long) I've been working hard to pay pretty strict attention of detail, and have spent quite a while planning, so I'm glad to hear that it's paying off! Yes, those are the books X) Thank you for the review, compliments, and encouragement!

* * *

 **Chapter 13: Memories and Outsiders Part 1**

 ** _~x~X~x~_**

 _A few months previous_

 ** _~x~X~x~_**

 _The commands and jeers of the three boys behind him had Horace inching further and further out into the icy stream that ran a few kilometers away from the Battleschool grounds. It was once a place where Horace had often gone to avoid the attentions of Josh, Gabe and Talo… that was until they had found him there one day. Since then, it had become one of their favorite spots to torment him. They particularly enjoyed sending him waist deep into the icy water. Once there, they usually forced him to hold some large stone aloft, over his head, straining and cold, for whatever long amount of time they chose._

 _He knew that this was their intention today and he was worried. The thought of that particular_ exercise _any day was horrible. It always left him feeling used, humiliated, and exhausted. But today he could stomach the thought even less than usual._

 _That was because it had rained._

 _It was, in fact, still raining. But the faint drizzle now was nothing compared to the downpour of earlier: a downpour that had swollen the river, turning it from a fairly mild trickle into a raging torrent of foaming brown water, choked with debris that had been brought down by rain and wind._

 _And they wanted him to go into it._

 _He didn't want to do it. He really didn't want to do it. He_ couldn't _do it. The water was just too fast, too dangerous. He halted in the now knee-deep water, every fiber of his body screaming at him to go no further._

 _But Josh, Talo, and Gabe weren't having it._

 _"Is baby scared of the big, bad river?" Josh taunted._

 _"Maybe it isn't the river by itself, he could just be scared of water in general," Gabe added wisely._

 _"Can't be," Talo pointed out, "because then he'd be scared of himself considering how often he cries."_

 _"What kind of knight is afraid of water?" Josh scoffed._

 _"A pathetic one," Gabe said sagely, "a_ baby _."_

 _They laughed at their clever wit before Josh grew tired and shouted at him to go in further._

 _This was the reason, Horace thought miserably as he listened to their jeers, the reason behind all their brutish attention. It was part of the toughening part of Battleschool after all, and the instructors, as well as these three, must be privy to some sickening form of weakness in him. Perhaps a true knight wouldn't hesitate at all in a situation like this. The thought made him feel guilty. That was enough to make him take a step forward. And it was the thought of the reprisal that would follow should he defy the three of them that decided him._

 _He took another step… and that step was all it took._

 _His foot sunk into an unexpected rut, taking him waist deep. The unexpectedness of it caused him to lose his careful stance against the pull of the murderous current. He was swept instantly off his feet. The current grabbed him and carried him off before he had a chance to blink. Water poured into his surprised and gasping mouth and he choked._

 _He was pulled and tossed around as if he were nothing more than a floundering piece of driftwood. Beyond disoriented and desperate for air, he couldn't seem to keep his head above water. He was having trouble even knowing which direction was up as he was rolled around and pounded by the current's ceaseless pull. Every time he tried to breathe, he only succeeded in swallowing more water. His lungs burned for lack of air. Terror made him flail helplessly, claw against the water. All he knew in that moment was that he was going to drown._

 _Then he stopped dead._

 _He felt a sharp tug at the back of his tunic, holding him in place while the water raced on, over and around him, drowning out all everything else. Desperately, he reached behind him, fumbling, grasping, until he took hold of what had snagged his tunic—a twisted branch from a downed tree that lay halfway in the water. Turning, he just managed to grab the log just as the branch that held him snapped. He clung the log, coughing and gasping—simply trying to breathe again._

 _It was a long time before he felt strong enough to claw himself along the log to shore, and longer still before he felt able to trudge back to Battleschool. But it took the longest of all to try and rid himself of the cloying panic, the terror, the feeling of suffocating, of being completely and utterly at the mercy and control of the icy river. He shuddered._

 **~x~X~x~**

 _Present_ _Day_

 **~x~X~x~**

It was a warm sunny day out, quiet and sort of peaceful too, Horace thought from where he sat, back against the trunk of a comfortably leaning tree, hands pillowed behind his head and legs spread out before him.

Things had settled into a kind of rhythm lately, a balance of training, a few jobs, and near-constant traveling. It wasn't an easy life by any means, but Horace was finding himself content with it: happy. Also, his birthday was coming up and he found himself excited for it. For the first time since Battleschool he had people who cared about him to share it with.

The sun was warm on his face and the gurgle of the nearby stream was almost pleasant from this distance, he decided amiably as he looked over to where both Will and Gilan were leaning over the stream bank. They both had soap and clothes in hand: since Gilan had decided that today was the perfect day for doing laundry. A certain level of cleanliness and order was, as Horace had already observed, something Gilan had a non-budging stance on.

Though he didn't care for the chore, he was used to it from his time in Battleschool. He had a much easier time of it than Will did… especially when it came to laundry. Will had been genuinely confused by the notion. After all, he was a boy who thought that it was perfectly acceptable to simply turn his shirt inside out when it got sufficiently dirty and continue wearing it.

 _"You get more use out of it that way,"_ Horace remembered him protesting, and smiled at the memory.

Today, however, Will had obliged more than willingly. After all, for the better part of the week, both he and Horace had come down with, and suffered through, a nasty little illness. Needless to say, the idea of scrubbing the trace of sickness free from their clothes and blankets had been an appealing one.

Horace smiled again as Will nearly lost the slippery soap in the stream for the fifth time.

"Hey, Will, you missed a spot," he couldn't resist calling to his best friend.

Will shot him a playful glare once he had the soap under control again. "You'll get your chance soon enough," he said by way of friendly threat. It was true. They only had two bars of soap and so resorted to turn-taking when it came to laundry day; Horace was up next.

"Will," Gilan said suddenly, grinning. Horace thought he saw a slight glint in the woodsman's eyes. "I think you might have an easier time of it if you moved a little further to your left."

Will seemed slightly puzzled by that but nevertheless did as Gilan suggested. Gilan tilted his head slightly, a small frown of concentration on his face as he looked calculatingly from the stream-bank to Will before frowning. "A little further," he urged with a wave of his hand.

Will scooted a little further still, puzzled. Horace was too, one stretch of bank seemed the same as any other after all. That was until the bank suddenly gave way beneath Will as he put his weight on it and he was sent tumbling into the water.

Will broke the surface to the sound of Gilan and Horace's laughter. Though Gilan's was cut satisfying short when Will pulled him in after him in retaliation. Which led to an inevitable full-scale water fight. Horace even moved closer to the bank, calling encouragement, sharing laughter, and expertly dodging any attempts to pull him the stream with them.

Though the playful fight ended rather abruptly when Will realized his tunic was being swept away by the swift running water. He was forced to chase after it at about the same time Gilan gave in to a sudden sneezing fit. The two of them eventually dragged themselves to shore to sit near Horace.

Will turned to him and seemed about to ask a question, but Horace preempted him.

"My birthday's in five days, you know," he announced to them both, partially because he was excited and had been thinking about it not moments ago and partially because he was trying to distract both them and himself from thoughts over his avoidance of fast-running water and swimming. He didn't notice how Will's bright smile faded almost entirely at the mention.

"Then, happy early birthday, Horace," Gilan said, smiling easily at him. Will mumbled his agreement.

This time Horace did notice his friend's expression, as well as the fact that Will had become suddenly quiet. He frowned, wondering what was wrong.

As soon as they made it back to their campsite, they set about hanging their clothes to try, organizing their kits and taking inventory of their supplies—as there was a village not too many kilometers away, according to Gilan's map.

"We're almost all out of flour!" Will called from where he was digging into the bag of their food stores.

"Anything else low?" Gilan asked, taking out the pouch that contained most their money stores and rooting through it with a finger, pausing only to sneeze again and clear his throat.

"No," Will called back. He hesitated then ventured, "But do you think we could get a few more cooking spices?"

Ever since Gilan had first started teaching him the basics of cooking, Will had taken to the craft. He actually enjoyed cooking and was getting very good at it.

"I had an idea that I could make a mix of dried spices that could be added to soups to flavor them, and speed up the cooking process?" he left the end hanging like a question.

Gilan, who had taken out the amount of coins needed to by grain and use the services of the village miller, shrugged at the suggestion. The extra coin it would take would be worth the time saved and travelabilty of the food if he could get his idea to work. He added a few more coins to the pile and passed them to Will. "Think you can handle getting the supplies?"

Will nodded once, taking the money. "What about you?"

"I think I'll check around town for work."

His search through the purse had told him plainly that they still had a far ways to go before they'd have enough to sit comfortably through winter. Gilan frowned at the thought, sniffing slightly, and then muffling a small cough. It was already turning into fall. Every day that passed, time was getting shorter. Finding some decent jobs was now a top priority, one that couldn't wait. He sighed in resignation, rubbing at his nose, and then his temples. He was feeling tired—but he couldn't afford to rest even if he wanted to.

By the time they finally reached the village, he was feeling precious little better. When he tried to stifle a small coughing fit for the third time, he noticed that Horace and Will were looking at him. He could read the concern on their faces.

"Maybe you should visit the town healer instead," Horace suggested. "That's how Will and I started," he pointed out, remembering the illness he and Will had just weathered under Gilan's watchful care. "I could check for jobs, while Will gets supplies."

But Gilan shook his head, brushing off their concern. "I'm fine, really. It's nothing I can't take care of myself." He meant it too. He'd been taking care of illness and injury himself for a long while. It was simpler, safer… he trusted no one so much as himself when it came to that.

Will and Horace seemed to accept that, and they split up. Gilan headed to the notice board while Will headed towards the miller's shop. Horace, after a brief hesitation, decided to go with Will. They'd meet back at the campsite when they were finished.

As Gilan headed toward the noticeboard, his eye was caught by a pedestal in the center of the village with small statuette placed atop it. Directly below it, there was a familiar circular emblem: a rune inscribed ring with a circular orb at its center connected to another sphere by a stone-like line. Gilan narrowed his eyes, unable to stop the quiet scoff from escaping his lips. It appeared that the Outsiders had made it this far south.

Other than that offhanded regard, however, he paid it no mind, focusing instead on the town notice board. Once he was close enough to read, he frowned slightly. There was nothing there save for a few hymns, prayers, a listing of gathering times for sermons, and that same emblem.

This time he managed to turn his scoff into a small exhale of pent up breath instead as he realized he wasn't alone any longer. There was a pair of men heading directly perpendicular to his position. He tracked their movement with a slight tilt of his head, whilst keeping up his scrutiny of the noticeboard.

"Mercenary eh?" One of the men said as he drew nearly level with him. On the surface, his tone seemed to be light and friendly, almost grandfatherly, but to Gilan's ears, the tone had an edge to it—a level of happy friendless that rang warningly false.

He elected to pretend not to notice as he turned a little to the left to face the man and his companion fully. Both were dressed in the long white robes of the Outsider priests and the one who had spoken carried a wooden staff.

Gilan leveled a smile at him in answer. "What gave it away?" he asked.

"Could have been your weapons or your manner of dress, that and the fact you're a newcomer to the village and the first place you go is the noticeboard," the man replied, chuckling, before he grew a little more serious, concerned. "I'm afraid you'll not find much by way of work here."

"So I'd noticed," Gilan replied cheerfully.

"Had you arrived a few months ago there would have been no end of work," the second priest added conversationally. "This village was beset by bandits, followers of the dark god Balsennis. It was lucky we were here. You see, we interceded for the people to Alseiass, the Golden God of friendship, for help. And now this village is under his protection. We haven't had any bandit problems since that would require your services—and we likely won't again. Alseiass's protection is as eternal as he is."

"I see," Gilan said airily, eyebrows raised. He had made an effort to keep his tone as neutral as possible. He saw no reason to antagonize the men before him, so opted to simply play passively along.

The priest nodded solemnly before he brightened again. "However, you are welcome to stay here for as long as you wish. Alseiass, in his benevolent mercy, would never turn away a traveler, or deny hospitality. Perhaps you can even attend the meeting tomorrow. You would be most welcome. Who knows, you might find a new path and purpose with Alseiass."

"Think I'll pass, thanks." Gilan's smile had taken on a slight edge. "Never was really much for religion."

That wasn't exactly true. Gilan really had nothing at all against religion—he was widely traveled and knowledgeable after all. But, in his opinion, the Outsiders weren't a religion. Calling them a cult was a kindness. Gilan suspected that they were really nothing more than a con—an elaborate rouse to steal money and power. Gilan had no proof of this, of course, but he suspected that the Outsiders were in league with the bandits that plagued the villages. The timing of these events were often just too coincidental. And he had noticed how the Outsiders prayed to their god to save the people _only_ when the people had given many tithes and offerings of precious metals, stones, money, and jewelry. Apparently, Alseiass, being _The Golden God_ , drew his power from valuables. Yet another convenience.

"I think I'll get out of your way then," he said amiably finally, moving to do just that.

"You don't have to leave on our account," the second priest interceded, "Alseiass respects your right to choose for yourself. He'll still save you and welcome you even if you don't believe, or if you follow other gods. He'd never force himself on anyone." The man assured him, all still spoken in that fractionally overly friendly tone.

If Gilan didn't already have an idea about what the Outsiders were, was only a fraction less mistrustful and skeptical, and had less practice in picking up subtle nuances in a person's tone, he could easily have liked this man, or at least found him a pleasant conversational partner. But Gilan did know better.

"All the same," he said casually with an idle flick of his hand, not pausing.

"Hold a moment would you," the first priest spoke up suddenly and Gilan paused to look back. "I think my friend might have been a little hasty. We don't have a problem with the bandits anymore, but there actually might be a job here that could require your skill. It just depends on one thing."

"Oh?" Gilan asked, sniffing involuntarily, and raising an eyebrow. "What might that be?"

"Do you have any skill at tracking?"

"I get by."

"Probably more than that," the first priest said. "You've the look of a woodsman about you."

Gilan didn't argue and merely inclined his head.

"Thought so," the man said. "You see, there has been a little… incident." He glanced around as if to ensure that they were alone before continuing."As my fellow had said, Alseiass has been protecting this village through his benevolence, and through the power of the tithes, the people have given. Unfortunately, one of our acolytes seems to have fallen under the thrall of the evil god Balsennis and has made off with many of the tithes—putting this village in danger.

Gilan smiled inwardly. So the great _god_ Alseiass could protect an entire village from bandits, but couldn't manage to protect his own tithes from one of his own acolytes.

"We have tried to retrieve them, but have been unable to find him," the priest continued, ashamed or reluctant. "Alas, we are but mere holy men and do not have much experience with tracking. I can't help but believe that Alseiass in his mercy and wisdom has guided you to us."

Gilan raised both eyebrows, and the man must have picked up on some unimpressed aspect of his expression as he added winningly, "If you aid us in tracking this traitorous acolyte, and help us retrieve our stolen tithes, you will be well compensated for your efforts, I assure you. I'm a little desperate for the sake of my people."

Then the man voiced an amount. Gilan hesitated, sniffing and then muffling a slight cough. Taking a job for the Outsider cult was distasteful, to say the least, but the amount he was offering for a simple tracking job was more than appealing. And it was money they needed. He resisted the urge to rub at the steadily growing ache in his head as he thought. Eventually, he nodded, reaching out to shake the lead priest's hand.

"You have a deal then…" he paused, seeking for the man's name.

The priest smiled in that disarming grandfatherly way. "Tennyson," he supplied, reaching out to clasp Gilan's hand in turn, "humble priest, patron, and shepherd of this village."

 **~x~X~x~**

Will had split off from Horace and Gilan as soon as they had reached the village. The task of buying the flour and the other supplies had thankfully given him the excuse to be alone and the chance to think. Ever since Horace had mentioned the fact that his birthday was coming up, the same troubled thoughts had kept replaying themselves Will's head: thoughts that had successfully replaced the happy mood from earlier with something darker.

The truth was that Will didn't even know what his last name was, let alone when his birthday was. Growing up in Bawtry he'd seen may other village children his age celebrating with their families on their birthdays, but he'd never known that himself… It was true that he had a vague memory of celebrating birthdays with his mother, but she had died when he was too young to remember the date for himself.

So when Horace had mentioned his birthday, Will hadn't been able to stop the dark mood that had come over him. And it wasn't as if he could just tell them why: after all, who didn't know when their own birthday was? He sighed.

He hoped that the chance to be alone might give him the opportunity to clear his mind and shove the slightly resentful pained feelings aside. This wasn't meant to be about him after all, it was supposed to be about his friend. And as far as birthdays went, he genuinely wanted Horace to have a happy one. He'd even taken several of his own coins along with him. It would be fun he realized, fun to surprise Horace with a gift when the day came. He intended to scour this village for the perfect gift along with his task of supply shopping.

However, his plans were thrown off when Horace chased after him, catching up with a tentative, but happy, smile on his face.

"I decided to go with you," he said, slinging a friendly arm around Will's shoulder, "thought you might want some company."

Will's frown returned as all his plans went out the window within the span of a second. He opened his mouth to tell Horace 'no' when he caught sight of the sincere and slightly concerned expression on his face and in his guileless eyes. He found he couldn't muster enough anger to even stay annoyed. Horace had probably noticed his less than happy mood and was trying to help in his own way. It was a nice thought, even if it was ruining Will's plan.

He managed a smile, prodding Horace in the ribs. "Sure, you can carry everything."

Horace grinned back. "But you're the one who could use the muscles."

"Why would I need muscles when I have the money?" he jibed back, the smile already feeling more genuine.

The spices Will had wanted were easy enough to find and pay for, so the two of them soon turned their attention to finding the miller's shop. It was in the middle of the square. They pushed open the door and entered. Once inside, he found the miller in a heated discussion with two of the white-robed priests he'd seen around the town.

"-all of it! He never delivered it like he was meant to! Tennyson thinks Kenton went and took it for himself before running off. And it was the insurance, if you will, of our new agreement! It needed to go to the head of our order. And Tennyson will be in big trouble if he loses it. Mark my words, that'll be the end of his gaining favor with the high priest and rising in the ranks—could count badly on us too, I'll warrant!"

Will cleared his throat and the men startled a little, obviously not having realized that he and Horace were there. And their expressions were far from welcoming.

"Excuse me," Will said politely, "I need to buy some flour."

The miller gestured impatiently towards where there were several bags of flour piled up against one wall.

"Eight slivers," he said shortly.

Will fumbled in his purse for the amount while Horace went to the pile, stooped and retrieved the nearest one, slinging it over his shoulder to carry it better. The miller pocketed the coins Will handed over and then promptly shooed them off with a dismissive hand wave.

Neither Will nor Horace were about to argue with that. As they were nearing the door to leave, they were nearly bowled over by a young man who had burst in. Horace nearly lost his grip on the bag and Will stumbled. The man did not offer so much as offer a glance or word of apology.

"These people certainly seem… friendly," Horace muttered, readjusting his sack and then nodding thanks at Will who had opened the door for him. They stepped out together, turning down the main street to head back to their camp.

The voices from inside the miller's shop had risen again and they carried clearly through the still swinging door.

"I found a note that Kenton left! Turns out he didn't steal it at all. If the note is true, It says he's running an errand for Tennyson and so he put the…" the voice became unintelligible for a moment before carrying again. "…with the others and that you can tell them apart because he tied the top shut with brown thread instead of white."

They continued on their way, walking past several armed men who were likely members of the village watch. Will looked behind him to see that they too were heading to the miller's shop. He couldn't help but wonder what all the hullabaloo was about and what was going on. When the men opened the door to enter, Will could hear a shout from inside.

"It's not here!"

Still curious, Will turned back around. He and Horace shrugged at each other. They had made it past the town and were skirting the farmlands. They were only about half a kilometer from the woods when Will suddenly stopped short. Something suddenly didn't feel right.

"What's wrong?" Horace asked stopping also.

That was when they heard it, running footfalls and the jangle of chainmail shirts. Will and Horace whirled to look behind them. Both froze for half a second at the sight that met their eyes. There was a party of men about ten to fifteen strong. Will picked out the faces of the men who had been in the miller's shop as well as the armed men he'd seen entering the shop later.

As Will and Horace watched, they realized that the men were running towards them, chasing them. If it hadn't been clear enough by the look, the message was driven home when one of the white-robed priests started shouting.

"There they are! Stop them! Kill them!"

 _Kill them?_

That was all it took. Will and Horace, as if of one mind, bolted, running full tilt towards the woods as the men pursued them. They raced through the trees, Will picking a direction away from their camp and leading them around tree trunks and through the brush. Will was faster than Horace so he guided them both, trying to remember any tips Gilan had given them on escaping pursuit: move randomly and swerve if possible, never give their pursuers a straight shot to them so they could close the gap, try to get enough distance to find cover. But the brush there wasn't thick enough for cover, and the men were too close to lose completely. They needed more distance, cover, or a defendable area to stand a chance.

What was worse was that Will had not spent enough time in these woods to know them well enough to accomplish this. He only had a general sort of idea from the chart Gilan had of the area. But the chart hadn't been very detailed and Will's study of it had been less so. His heart hammered wildly as he swore that, if he and Horace were to somehow get out of this situation alive, he would start paying more attention to mapping and charting lessons. He'd never slack off again.

Then his heart leaped with hope; there looked to be a slight clearing ahead framed by a run of boulders and thick brush. Perhaps they could find somewhere to hide there. Will pelted towards it, pushing aside a hanging branch and stepping out into full sunlight.

The edge of terror that had been coursing through his veins suddenly turned into a full-blown panic. He swore softly to himself, feeling his skin turn cold even as his stomach twisted.

He had made a mistake.

It wasn't a clearing at all, but a place where the fast running steam cut deeply through the land. He perched on the ledge of a large grey granite outcropping—part of the cliff that overhung the river five meters below him. And the gap to the other side was too far to jump. He had as good as cornered them both.

Thinking of Horace, he whirled to see him nowhere in sight. Numbly, he realized he must have gotten ahead of his friend and inadvertently left him behind. Heart in his throat, he resolved to run back for him when Horace finally burst through the underbrush. He skidded to an abrupt halt on the ledge beside Will, eyes wide as he realized their situation.

"What took you so long?" Will blurted, voice cracking, still reeling from that awful feeling that had assailed him when he realized that his friend hadn't been behind him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realized that that didn't really matter—that it was probably the very least of their problems at the moment. But he was too numbed with confusion and terror to think clearly.

"This bag is really heavy!" Horace protested back, gesturing to the grain bag he'd brought. His tone was nearly as shrill as Will's had been.

"Why didn't you just drop it!?" Will demanded.

Horace opened his mouth to reply before he obviously realized he had no good answer to that question. His face had become flushed with exertion and frustration.

"Well it's not like it would have helped anyway," he finally said, angrily gesturing to the cliff. "Fast or not, I'd still be trapped. _We're_ trapped!" The crashing sounds of their pursuers were steadily growing louder. "What do we do?!"

"I don't know!" Will shouted, trying to think, nearly frantic with desperation.

Horace's eyes were wide but he nodded. He set the bag down and moved to stand with feet planted, facing the approaching enemy. He drew his sword with deliberate resignation. Will understood. If there was not going to be a chance for them to escape, he was not going to go down without a fight.

Will watched him, starting to draw his own bow as the sound of their pursuers drew ever nearer. His mind whirled for some plan, some strategy to get them out of this. Then he had it.

"Horace, we have to jump!"

"Jump?"

"The water looks deep enough."

"But Will-" Horace started to protest.

"We have to risk it! It's our only chance!"

Horace tore his eyes from where the enemy would soon appear and towards the fast running river five meters down.

"I can't…" he stammered, floundering for the words to explain.

But Will hadn't heard him. He had slung his bow over his shoulder and leaped into the water without so much as a second thought—trusting implicitly that Horace would follow. But Horace couldn't follow. He _couldn't_. And it wasn't the idea of the height or jumping; it was the idea of the swift running water at the bottom.

He watched it now, eyes darting between the fast-moving water and the approaching enemy. They sounded so much closer now, nearly upon them. He expected to see Will surface soon, but there was nothing, no sign of him. He gave another darting look back towards where the enemy was then back to the water. Where his terror had previously mostly been for himself and the men after him, now it was only for Will, he should have surfaced by now.

Unless…

Unless something had happened: he'd landed wrong, gotten stuck somehow, hit his head, something. He could be drowning right now, or in desperate need of help. He could die because Horace was too scared of fast running water to jump. Horace gritted his teeth, feeling his heart rate increasing.

Maybe he couldn't jump in for himself, but he could for Will. Horace gave one last look towards the pursuing men, their forms just starting to take more definite shape through the screen of brush. He sheathed his sword and jumped.

As he jumped, his foot hit the side of the grain bag and it tipped over the edge, landing with a splash beside him.

The water was fairly deep, but not deep enough to keep his feet from touching bottom fairly hard. The icy water folded around him, and he could feel the current already reaching out, grabbing at him, starting to pull him along. But this time Horace refused to be helpless. He had to find Will. He opened his eyes trying to see through the murk.

And he saw a hand reaching towards him, grasping him by the arm and hauling him closer to the side of the cliff he'd jumped from. Belatedly, Horace realized that it was Will and he allowed himself to be pulled after him, blindly grabbing at the bag of grain that had landed within arm's reach.

In the back of his mind, he realized this was pointless, the flour would be ruined by the water now; but he'd carried it all this way and the sight, feel, and weight of it, anchored him in the same way Will's grasp did.

Will pulled Horace towards him, into a darker shadowed patch of water where the current wasn't as strong. Lungs aching for air, Horace surfaced to find that they were underneath an overhang of the cliff. It was a cave-like niche that hadn't been visible from the riverbank as the overhang actually touched the water from the front and was shielded either side by thickly growing water plants. It wasn't as deep there either and his feet touched bottom easily.

It was the perfect hiding spot.

Will put his finger to his lips to simulate silence. But that was unnecessary. Horace had no intentional at all of giving away their position to the pack of murderous men after them. He thought he could just hear them shouting and stomping about from above, the sound just caring over that of running water.

He clutched the bag tighter as they waited in silence. The current wasn't strong in this little alcove, but it was still there. Also, their hiding spot was a small and cramped dark space: two of the things he hated most. And he hated himself for that. He scooted as far back against the wall as he could, reflecting dully that the thought of the death waiting for them outside wasn't helping much either. He gritted his teeth as he tried to steady his breathing.

In the dimness, he saw Will move back towards him before placing a nervous hand on his shoulder. Horace squeezed Will's back in return as they waited in tense silence. It took a long time for the sounds of their searching pursuers to move by and fade out of earshot. They both relaxed fractionally but stayed completely silent for still longer just to be certain before deeming it safe to whisper.

"Are you alright?" Will asked. "Are you hurt?"

Horace shook his head, still trying to breathe steadily. "It's just I don't like this." He gestured around himself.

"The water?" Will asked, obviously remembering how Horace had avoided entering it earlier that morning… had it really just been that morning? It seemed ages ago now.

Horace's first instinct was to deny it; he opened his mouth to do just that before he stopped. This was Will; he didn't distrust or fear him like he had so many others at Battleschool. There was no use pretending with him; in fact, it was a relief not to have to.

He eventually nodded. "That and the small space."

He could practically see the flood of curiosity and questions growing in Will, but thankfully his friend decided not to press. Horace was grateful for that. He was silent for a moment before he voiced the thought had been bothering him from the start of this whole insane situation.

"Why were they after us?

"I don't know," Will replied, frustrated, trying to piece everything together. But it just didn't make any sense at all no matter how he looked at it… that was until Horace spoke.

"This grain feels weird," he muttered idly as if just coming to the revelation, "hard and lumpy. Wet flour shouldn't do that should it?" he mused.

Will peered curiously at it. He could see what Horace meant, and saw also how the top of the bag was sewn shut with a dark thread that didn't match the white on the bottom. In the gloom, he couldn't tell what color it was: perhaps brown. Brown… like the snip of conversation, he had overheard.

Suspicious, he drew his saxe from his belt and proceeded to cut the top off the bag, pulling it and Horace a little closer to a shaft of light that made its way into their hiding spot through a break in the tall water plants near the side.

His eyes widened. There, amidst the gloopy mess that had once been flour, was gold, other precious metals, jewelry, jewels, and uncut stones. Both boys looked at the bag and its contents and then at each other, open-mouthed.

"I think I know why they were chasing us," Will whispered.

* * *

 **A/N:** Thanks again for reading! I hope this chapter proved to be an enjoyable diversion! As usual, feedback is very appreciated. I'd love to hear your thoughts. I'll get the next two parts out as soon as I can X)

I wish you all the very best until next time! You guys are awesome!


	15. Chapter 14

**A/N:** Hi everyone! I'm back... if anyone is still reading this, that is XD. I hope you are all still doing well! I really do apologize for the delay. It was just really hard to write anything at all this school semester. I was balancing a full-time job/internship with several classes including this super intense capstone class that had an insane workload (my final project was 50 pages in a word document—not double spaced! I just about died). But I have finally graduated from college with a Bachelor's degree so yay! I don't know what my schedule is going to be like in the near future, but I plan to keep writing as much as I'm able. I hope this next chapter proves itself an enjoyable diversion. Thanks for reading!

 **ApplePower:** Thanks so much for the compliment! I'm really glad you like it so far. I've had a lot of fun incorporating elements from all the different books. This work is actually turning into a bit larger of a project than I'd first anticipated XD. I'm glad Crowley and Gilan's interactions came off well—it was really fun to write them. Evanlyn is not exactly okay at the moment... Also, I hope that the ending, when we get there proves to be satisfactory *evilly rubs hands together* I've got a lot planned.

 **Guest:** I'm really sorry about the wait. X( I'll definitely make sure that the next chapter is out much faster. Thanks so much for the compliment and the review!

 **Ranger-of-the-shadows:** They are definitely in a tight spot—and it's only going to get tighter. I really am very much looking forward to writing them out of the mess I wrote them into XD. Thanks so much for the review!

 **jaymzNshed:** yes they totally did, and the worst part is that it's not just the two of them who have managed to get themselves into a bit of a situation. Thanks so much for the review!

 **Random Flyer:** Yeah, Horace won't be happy with the idea of using all that stolen money to solve their financial troubles. And yes all three of them will have their work cut out for them solving/ getting out of this situation (but I have faith in them too) X). Gilan and Halt meeting is going to be pretty fun. I'm looking forward writing how that will play out. Also, thank you so much for the encouragement and the support. It means a lot :D

 **Lilly-daughter of Radolso:** Thanks so much for all the reviews! It made my day/s. Poor Will indeed. He doesn't really have it the best in this AU… I think it's pretty much canon that Alyss's smile is irresistible XD I'm also glad to hear that Gilan came out how I hoped he would in my writing. Also thanks so much for catching that mistake for me. I really appreciate it. It seems that there's always something, no matter how many times I edit it *sighs dramatically* Thanks again!

 **Dragonslover98:** Yes, this chapter will have a lot of Halt in it for sure XD. Will Horace and Gilan are indeed in some deep trouble and it might not be all that easy to solve… Thanks so much for the review! It was really encouraging.

 **Gerbilfriend:** I'm glad you are enjoying the outsiders XD There's definitely going to be more about them (and exactly what they are up to/in to), and more Gilan, Will, and Horace working together too. I really love them together. Thanks so much for the review!

 **TrustTheCloak:** Your review totally made my day to read XD. I've actually had quite a lot of fun bringing in things from other books. I think that with Halt gone, the Outsiders and Moondarkers would totally be out of control in Araluen, since he was most responsible for kicking them out. I also think that including familiar (but not beloved) characters like Tennyson kinda makes sense all things considering XD. Horace and Will are definitely doing better. And Gilan is not in for the best of times in this chapter arc… Thanks for the review!

* * *

 **Chapter 14: Memories and Outsiders Part II**

 **~x~X~x~**

Tracking the traitor priest had turned out to be a fairly straightforward job. Once Gilan had gotten the man's last seen direction of travel from witnesses in the village, he'd been able to sweep the area until he'd come across the man's trail. Seeing as how the ground was moist, the trail was easy to follow once it was found.

Tennyson and the other priest that had hired him had insisted upon following along. They had also brought along two others whom Gilan guessed to be bodyguards based on their sturdy builds, crossbows, and swords.

He couldn't say that he was especially pleased to have those four men at his back. But, then again, it had been a long time since he hadn't minded having someone at his back, he thought with a wry smile. Besides, he'd put up with worse for the sake of coin before. He shrugged mentally, muffling another cough.

"Are you quite certain that he went this way?" Tennyson demanded suddenly from behind him. He sounded almost confused.

Gilan turned to level a look back at him. "Positive."

"But if he kept going this way, it would lead him straight to…" the second priest said before he stopped abruptly, nervously licking his lips. "Towards the area were the bandits of Balsennis always came from," he finally finished.

Gilan narrowed his eyes and only just hid a smile. The man had just as good as confirmed that they were working with the bandits with that statement. If Gilan had to guess, he'd say that both priests were confused that the thief was heading towards the bandits with his stolen goods, because they were working together. A man who had just stolen from their group would hardly run to its other members. It was the only reason for the two priests to be confused that the thief was going this way. From their point of view, the thief should be trying to avoid this area like the plague.

He didn't let on about his suspicions though and instead asked innocently, "why is that surprising? As a traitor to your Alseiass god, wouldn't it make sense that he'd go to the other?"

Tennyson and the other priest exchanged the very briefest of side glances with each other, hesitating before Tennyson hastily answered. "Because the followers of Balsennis are so ruthless that they would sooner kill him and take the tithes for themselves before they'd welcome him or offer him refuge."

Gilan outwardly nodded at them in acceptance of their excuse. But the minimal side glances, hesitation, and hasty answer had as good as confirmed that his first assumption had been correct. He looked back to the tracks, frowning slightly as he discretely cleared his throat to stop another cough. His head ached and felt overstuffed, but he forced himself to focus. There was a question that needed to be answered. The question was, why, if what he had just inferred was true, was the man heading towards the bandits? It didn't make sense. There was something significant there—something important that he was missing. But his head was currently too clogged with illness to make any sort of quick sense of it.

Just then, he heard the sound of many footfalls coming behind them and he turned fully, hand on his sword hilt. His actions were mirrored by the other four in their party. The two bodyguards even started to raised their crossbows before they lowered them, obviously familiar with the approaching men—which consisted of several village watch members, two other priest, and two village men.

"What on earth is going on?" Tennyson asked them.

"Tennyson!" one said urgently. "Kenton didn't take the tithes after all! He dropped them off at the miller's shop! Left a note saying so."

"So, you have the tithes?" Tennyson said relieved, before annoyance crept into his tone, "I'm glad you brought the message, but why did you bring the entire village watch to tell me that?"

"We didn't. That's the thing; before we could get the tithes from where Kenton left them. Two boys came into the shop and stole them! We gave chase but lost them in the forest near the river."

"So you did lose it!" Tennyson said, all the grandfatherly warmth in his tone dissolving in an instant. Then he seemed to gather himself, calm down slightly. He gestured to Gilan. "It's no matter; we'll just have this woodsman track those two boys instead of Kenton. I've already seen that he's good enough to be able to find the trail from wherever you lost sight of them. I am already paying him to help us track down the tithes—it shouldn't matter whom he has to track in the process."

"Except it won't work," one of the priests said—eyes focusing, and then narrowing, on Gilan.

"And why not?" the anger was creeping back into Tennyson's voice along with condescension at being challenged by a subordinate. Tennyson was obviously a man who was not often told what he could or couldn't do.

"Because he's in on it!" the priest said emphatically. "I saw him with the very two boys who stole the tithes earlier today."

Nobody, including Gilan, had expected to hear that. Had his head been clear and his reflexes not dulled by aching and fatigue, he might have been able to put it all together faster, see what was coming soon enough to draw his own bow before they did—or even make a hostage of Tennyson to guarantee his escape and safety. But his head wasn't clear; and although he had started to reach for his weapons before the man had even finished speaking, his response was milliseconds to slow. The two bodyguards were fractionally faster. He found himself standing with his weapon only three quarters drawn, staring down at the murderous heads of four loaded crossbows all aimed at his heart. The rest of the watch moved in to surround him.

Head spinning with the sudden turn everything had taken, as well as what he was certain was the start to a fever, he stood frozen, tense. For the life of him, he still couldn't seem to piece together the string of events that had led to this but had little enough time to dwell on that.

He saw no other option but to obey when he was ordered to drop his weapons. Once he did, the men moved in and he found himself forced to kneel before Tennyson, his hands bound tightly, roughly, behind his back. The tension in his body was the only outward sign he allowed of the building unease and worry beginning to coil in his chest: for Will and Horace as much as himself. Because, somehow, they were involved in this mess—even if he didn't fully understand how. A sudden sick feeling in his stomach mingled with spinning in his head.

 **~x~X~x~**

Will and Horace glanced surreptitiously at each other before coming to a mutual decision. Quietly, they both made their way towards the side of the alcove that was covered by the river plants. They inched out a pace or two and then stopped and listened.

The sounds of the searchers that had hounded them had long since passed from their range of hearing while they had been hidden beneath their cover. However, neither of them was fully certain that that meant their pursuers had moved on altogether. Step by cautious step, they eased along the cliff-like side of the bank through the reeds and cattails. They listened carefully for any hint to danger but came up with nothing. Feeling a little more encouraged, they broke free of the cover of the reeds. Both halted as soon as they did so, waiting for some cry of alarm—but there was nothing. They glanced uneasily at each other before they shrugged.

Will lead the way through the shallows, Horace following behind him, clutching the sodden bag to his chest. They stayed that way, sometimes swimming when the water got too deep, and staying well away from the faster currents but always moving downstream until the high banks lowered enough for them to climb up. Once they were in the relative safety of the woods, they finally deemed it safe enough to speak again.

"What do we do now?" Horace asked a touch breathlessly, gesturing to the bag of jewels and coin held close to his chest. "There's enough money here to last us two winters without work."

Horace saw Will tilt his head slightly in obvious thought.

"No," Horace preempted him in a tone that brooked no argument, "this money belongs to the village!"

"I wasn't thinking anything like that," Will said innocently, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "I was just wondering what to do about it. I mean, those men think we stole it after all. We wouldn't get more than three paces into the village if we just tried to bring it back." He chewed on his lip. "We should take it to Gilan. He'll know what to do. He should probably be back at camp by now."

Horace nodded, shouldering the sack again with a soft grunt, before looking at Will expectantly.

"What?" Will asked after a moment.

Horace gestured with his free hand. "Aren't you going to, you know, lead the way?"

"Why me?" Will asked.

"I don't know," Horace said, reddening a little. "It's just that you usually do that, and you were the one who studied the map with Gilan earlier."

"I wasn't exactly paying attention to directions and landmarks while we were running," Will admitted.

Horace looked surprised by that revelation. "I thought that with people like you and Gilan it was just, I don't know, innate?"

"I was a little preoccupied with running for my life at the time in case you didn't notice," Will pointed out a little hotly.

"No, I noticed," Horace said in answer.

Will narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Horace's guileless expression, unable to tell at that moment whether he'd said it as a sarcastic jibe or a straightforward innocent remark. Horace's face gave nothing away and Will eventually decided to give his friend the benefit of the doubt. He let out his breath in a short puff of air before looking around at the surrounding woodlands trying to pinpoint their location.

"I think it's that way," Will said finally, remembering how the sun had warmed his back as he'd run from the village. "At least, it should get us closer to where we were. I should be able to find our way back to camp from there."

Horace merely nodded in response and followed after, trusting Will's judgment implicitly.

"I just hope our luck clears up before my birthday," Horace said finally as they trudged along.

Will frowned slightly at that remark, unconsciously hunching in on himself. He gave only an uncustomary curt nod in response, not looking at Horace.

There was a moment of silence and then. "Are you alright, Will?"

Will tensed instinctively.

"Oh, I'm just fine, it's been a lovely day for me: getting framed for thievery, getting chased and almost killed by a village watch. I wish every day were like this, actually." Will said, his tone pitched a little higher, a little tighter, than normal.

Horace took a slow patent breath. "I was here for that part of it," he pointed out calmly. "I meant before that. You've seemed a little… upset today."

Will felt the defensive tension draining out of him. Horace had, after all, confided in him earlier about his fear of fast-moving water. And that level of trust went both ways… at least Will wanted it to. He glanced back at Horace and took a breath to steady himself.

"I don't know—don't remember… when my birthday is," he said finally attempting a casual shrug. He snuck a glance at Horace as the bigger boy looked back at him. His expression went from surprise to confusion and then to something along the lines of guilt within the span of a second.

"Not even an idea?" he asked finally.

Will shook his head in answer. "I don't actually remember all that much before Bawtry," he said carefully. "Not my last name, my birthday… or my mother's face." The last he said softly, almost too quiet to be heard aloud, but Horace did. He stopped short.

Horace seemed to be searching for something to say before he finally settled on, "I'm sorry."

Will shrugged again. "It's not your fault. It's just that I sometimes wish that I did remember those things—I keep thinking that if I did, I might be able to remember more about my mother, or maybe even my father… and that I might feel less like I'm… missing something, I guess. So, when you told us about your birthday this morning, I guess I just got a little jealous."

"I… I don't remember my mother's face either," Horace admitted quietly.

It was Will's turn to be surprised, although, that feeling was quickly swept away by another: empathy or perhaps understanding. He put a hand on Horace's free shoulder and Horace gripped his in return briefly.

"Maybe we'll both remember someday?" Horace suggested hopefully after a pause.

"Maybe," Will said, smiling wryly.

"And if neither of us remembers, we could always come up with a new last name and a new birthday for you," Horace suggested then.

Will smiled, more genuinely this time. "I think I'd like that."

It took a little longer than they wanted, but Will and Horace finally did make it back to camp—only to find it empty. Will glanced at the low angle of the setting sun and frowned.

"Gilan should have been back by now."

"Maybe he found a job in the village and is still on it?"

Will nodded thoughtfully but couldn't brush away a certain uneasy feeling that had started to take root in his chest. That small worm of doubt only seemed to grow as the sun disappeared entirely behind the horizon.

"What if something happened?"

Horace shrugged a little, nudging the toe of his boot into the cursed grain bag which he'd set near the place he'd chosen as his seat.

"Gil can take care of himself."

"I know. It's just I've got a bad feeling about all this. He gestured to the bag and then in the direction of the village."

Horace frowned. "Well, it's not like we can just go and check. What would we even say? Hello, please don't kill us, we promise we only stole your stuff by accident and, by the way, have you seen our friend?"

It was Will's turn to frown. It did, admittedly, sound bad when put like that. The only sensible thing for them to do, it seemed, was to wait. And wait… Will tried, he really did. But, the more he waited, the more uneasy he got. He glanced at the growing shadows of night and nodded to himself, his mind made up. Turning, he stilled himself to ignore the protests he knew would follow as soon as he shared his decision.

"I'm going to sneak into the village and see what I can find out."

 **~x~X~x~**

The wargals were closing in on an old man. Each of the bestial creatures had their weapons drawn as the moved in from all sides. Crowley could guess the outcome of this confrontation as easily as the cowering man could. The man sank to his shaking knees on the ground before them, begging for his life, his slim weathered arms raised in a pathetic attempt to protect his vulnerable head.

It had been the sound of the man's screams, pleas, and wracked sobs that had drawn Crowley further out from the safety of the woods and towards the edge of open farmland. In the distance, he could see the small shape of the village that the farmlands surrounded. All those factors decided Crowley now. The town being so far distant significantly decreased the threat of retribution. In a split second, he had calculated the risks and found them acceptable. Although he had so far been able to keep to his plan of lying low, his conviction wasn't about to last in a situation like this. It just simply wasn't in his nature to stand by when someone needed help and he was in a position to provide it.

Stepping out from cover with his bow drawn, he pitched his voice loud enough to draw the wargals' attention.

"Step away from him!"

At the sound of his call, six wargal heads turned in his direction. For a moment, the creatures seemed as baffled by his sudden appearance as they were by the fact that someone was standing up to them. Crowley's mouth twitched down in a frown as he realized that it probably had been a long time since anyone in the village had dared to stand up to them or any of Morgarath's men for that matter. Their bafflement didn't last long however as, one after the other, their grotesque faces pulled back into snarls.

"Last warning!" Crowley told them. "Just back away. There's no need to make this ugly."

But the wargals disagreed apparently. The one closest to the old man raised his club high with the obvious intention to swing it down upon the old man's unprotected head. Crowley's first arrow was on its way in the span of an eye blink. The arrow hit the first wargal square in the chest and the next two were on their way before Crowley really had the chance to think about what he had just done. All he knew was that he couldn't just stand by and watch the creatures murder someone. All three fell unmoving.

As one, the remaining wargals charged towards him. Crowley let his next arrows fly, trying to draw the beasts away from their victim and succeeding. Three more wargals fell before they were able to cross the distance to where he stood. Crowley was only able to get off one more shot before the remaining ones were upon him. The one nearest swiped forward with a heavy club. Crowley ducked under the vicious swipe and pivoted to the left to buy himself distance and time as he exchanged his bow for his two knives, knowing that his bow would do little good for him at such close quarters.

Then, suddenly, he was no longer alone. He sensed rather than heard or saw another presence beside and slightly behind him. Fearing that he'd been flanked, he whirled just in time to see a cowled and bearded man fire his own longbow at the wargals. The four wargals nearest Crowley fell in quick succession.

Perhaps, Crowley found himself thinking, his earlier assessment that no one here had the courage to stand against the wargals could stand to be revised a little. But he had little enough time to dwell on that. Both he and his strange ally renewed their attack on the bestial creatures, Crowley with his two knives and the cowled man with his bow, until the last wargal fell.

Crowley turned his attention to the man who had helped him, hands still on his knives until the other man sheathed an unused arrow and slung his bow back over his shoulder. After the man had gone to the trouble to help him, Crowley doubted that he would attack him, but it always paid to be cautious. Crowley let out a breath when he saw that the man was clearly not presenting himself as a threat and sheathed his own knives before studying the man more closely.

The man was dark haired and grizzled. He wore a cloak in a similar design to Crowley's own, but it was a dull forest green instead of mottled. He also had a saxe and throwing knife placed in scabbards set close together on one hip in addition to his bow. His dress, movements, the skill of his shooting, and his manner seemed to strike a familiar chord in Crowley—reminded him of a Ranger… reminded him of… He shook his head slightly, pushing that thought and feeling away. Instead, he smiled warmly at the stranger.

"Thanks for lending a hand with that lot. You made my job much easier."

"Taking on entire wargal patrols single-handed. Interesting strategy," the newcomer said, and Crowley noticed a Hibernian accent.

"Well it must have worked because I'm still around and breathing and they aren't," Crowley replied, eyes smiling.

"That one way of looking at it, I suppose."

The stranger said it completely deadpan as he stepped closer until they were level with each other. But before they could say anything further, the old man that they had just saved seemed to break free of his cowering trance. He glanced from the dead wargals to the Hibernian and then to Crowley. His mouth moved but no words came out, his whole body shaking. Crowley was about to take a step towards the man when he finally found his voice and rose shakily to his feet.

"You're crazy, you two are!" he screamed before turning and running away as fast as he could go in his awkward hobble.

Crowley looked after the man, dumbfounded. Then he directed his attention back to the Hibernian when the man spoke.

"Well, that's certainly an interesting way of saying 'thank you'."

"It sort of gives off the impression of not being thankful at all—If you think about it," Crowley agreed a faint smile touching his lips.

"Oh, I doubt he did," the Hibernian said, again without the faintest trace of a smile.

Crowley chuckled and could not help but feel a sort of familiarity, a sort of instinctive liking. Crowley was still thinking on it when the man spoke again.

"And here comes our thank you gift, I suppose."

"What?" Crowley asked, startled from his thoughts as he followed the man's pointing finger and froze.

There, jogging towards them at full speed, was another party of wargals, this one much larger than the one they had just taken down. It must have been another patrol—one that had been close enough to hear the sounds of fighting. Worse still, they seemed to be heading very purposely towards them.

"I suppose it'd be too much to hope that they're not after us and are instead simply late for a shift change, wouldn't it?"

The Hibernian glanced at the charging line of wargals and tiled his head quizzically before glancing back at Crowley with a raised eyebrow.

"Thought so," Crowley lamented. "And now the question is what exactly we should do about it."

"Getting out of here might be a good place to start," his companion suggested flatly, calmly—as if he wasn't just about to be run down by a pack of wargals.

"I'd say that's a good idea considering the circumstances," Crowley agreed, grinning again and keeping pace with the Hibernian as they raced towards and then into the forest, intent on losing their pursuers. And with all the excitement of chasing after them, the wargals would probably forget about the old man, at least—that was something, Crowley could not help thinking as they raced for their lives.

Crowley turned to his new companion and grinned, holding out a hand as he ran.

"Name of Crowley, by the way," he said between heavy breaths. "Might as well get to know each other since we might well die together if we don't make it out of this."

There was a moment of something, hesitation perhaps, before the Hibernian clasped hands with him in return.

"Halt."

 **~x~X~x~**

Cordell led his horse through the open gate of the castle that served as one of Morgarath's main centers of operation. It was one of the nicest castles in his holdings, after all. Once inside the courtyard, he dismounted, dragging the young princess off the horse by the back of her tunic. He set her beside where he stood, gripping her by her left shoulder. She was bound hand a foot and gagged, so he had no need to grip her tightly. She was not about to escape him. He was about to move forward when Morgarath's right-hand man Teezal stepped out of the castle's central tower to meet him.

"What have you got there, Cordell?" he asked sneeringly once he was close enough. "My lieutenant told me that you said you have something of high importance to deliver to Lord Morgarath. He glanced around and behind Cordell before asking, "and where are your men? Don't tell me that this wench defeated them all before you managed to catch her."

His tone was condescending, mocking, and it made Cordell bristle.

"This wench, as you call her, is nothing less than the crown princess of Araluen. Duncan's brat." He sneered back, feeling the girl flinch slightly as he revealed her identity. She started to struggle again but stopped when he cuffed her hard on the back of her head.

He was inordinately pleased when his announcement thoroughly shocked Teezal.

"That's the crown princess?" Teezal spluttered.

"It is," Cordell informed him. "I was close to the king for a while, remember? I'd recognize her anywhere. I caught her trying to sneak back into Araluen by ship. I heard Lord Morgarath was looking for her—paid a foreign warlord for her capture. Well, I found her, and I intend to deliver her Lord Morgarath."

Teezal seemed to regain his composure a little after that, his sneer returning. "I'm afraid you just missed him. He's on his way to his fortress in the Mountains of Rain and Night to work on…" he trailed and glanced briefly at the princess before continuing, "his _project_. It's a key part of his recent plan, as you know, and he isn't expected back any time soon."

Cordell felt his face beginning to flush with the beginnings of anger and irritation—both at Teezal and at the situation.

"But you can give the princess to me," Teezal said smoothly. "I can make certain to deliver her to our lord for you so you can get back to your men and job at the border."

Cordell's anger flared entirely to life at that suggestion. "And let you take all the credit for her capture? I think not! The Mountains of Rain and Night are not too far out of my way. Give me some supplies and I'll be gone by sundown."

Teezal snarled at this and Cordell smirked knowing that he'd won this argument.

"Very well," Teezal said finally, as he signaled to his men, "have it your way."

Cordell smirked again; he certainly intended to. If anyone was to get the credit, reward, and glory for capturing the princess, it was going to be him—even if he had to add an extra day or two's ride. His hand gripped unconsciously tighter on the princess's shoulder until she let out a muffled cry.

 **~x~X~x~**

It took a while of running and careful maneuvering to leave the wargals behind and ensure that they wouldn't be able to track them. By then, both Halt and Crowley had made it deep into the woods and were panting for breath. Halt regarded his onetime best friend, looking him over carefully for the first time in what seemed like ages. He hadn't had the time to earlier as he'd been more focused on helping him fend off that wargal attack. He had to admit that the seeing Crowley had been the very last thing he'd expected to see while tracking the princess through Morgarath's lands. It had been unexpected but, at the same time, it had been the most welcome sight he'd seen in what seemed like a lifetime.

As he studied him now, he saw that his friend looked almost exactly the same as he had in that other time; his expressions, his eyes, the way he carried himself. It was all so much the same that it made Halt's chest ache slightly with familiarity and longing.

But there was one glaring difference. Halt felt his mouth drawing down slightly at the corners as his gaze roved over the massive scar that cut its way deeply through Crowley's face. Halt's fingers flexed, twitched, moving almost of their own accord toward his old friend as if he could somehow brush away that horrible scar and all the pain that had likely come with it. His brain caught up with his heart and he checked the motion before it had been completed more than halfway. He forced his arm to drop and his fingers to relax. He hated that scar. He hated it for what it represented: he'd abandoned his friend and Crowley had paid the price. He had failed.

Crowley seemed wholly unaware of Halt's thoughts or feelings because he merely smiled an all too achingly familiar smile at him.

"Well, Halt, I think we gave them the slip."

"Appears so," Halt agreed, trying and failing to phrase the many questions he wanted to ask, to find the answers he wanted to know, trying to bury that ever-growing ache that had taken hold in his heart.

"I doubt they'll be able to find us," Crowley continued, before glancing at the fading sunlight, "and here seems as good a place as any to camp. Unless you object or have somewhere you need to be."

Halt mutely shook his head in answer and set himself to the task of helping his onetime best friend set up a camp. All the while he'd felt the relief, hope, and excitement—which had previously been making him feel lighter than he had in ages—seep slowly and steadily away as he looked into Crowley's eyes and found them missing the depth and weight of the years of friendship that had shaped their lives together all those years ago.

Halt had just finished lighting the fire when Crowley spoke.

"I couldn't help but notice that we seem to share many of the same skills and weapons? Where did you come by them?"

The sense of memory and familiarity that came with that simple question weighed heavy in his chest to mingle with that painful realization that the familiarity really was only on his part. Crowley didn't remember him, didn't know him in this time.

He didn't know what he had expected, he hadn't thought all that much about it—had been purposely avoiding thinking about it. He just hoped… he'd hoped that, somehow, when he met up with Crowley and the others he'd once known, that they'd somehow remember him too: remember everything they'd lived through together, everything that had been, everything they'd all lost.

There had been a brief moment when he'd thought that Crowley might have remembered him… but the moment had passed. And Halt was left with nothing but the painful realization that Crowley didn't know him. They were nothing more than strangers now. The friendship that they had built together was lost, counted for nothing in this time.

That feeling of hope and happiness that had previously gripped him turned sour as he cursed himself bitterly for foolishly allowing himself to hope, to expect anything better than what this was. He roughly shoved the feeling aside. There was nothing to be done about it now but move forward and work with what he had to start again, rebuild what they had once had.

He gave no outward show of any of those thoughts and merely nodded at Crowley before launching into the story he'd prepared for himself in the event he ran into another Ranger who he hadn't been close enough to remember—he hadn't thought he'd have to use it on Crowley, but there it was.

He'd long since come to the conclusion that Pritchard had to be dead in this time, had died or had been executed instead of being banished from Araluen. That was the only way to explain how everything had changed in this time. So, he started there, hoping he had guessed correctly.

He told his onetime friend how he had been Pritchard's apprentice but hadn't been able to finish his training before Pritchard had been executed for false charges, while Halt himself had been sent to Gallica, banished from the kingdom. He'd told how, only a year after he'd arrived there, he'd been hit in the head during the battle, lost his memory, and had been wandering around Gallica with amnesia ever since. He explained that it was only recently he regained his memory and had decided to return home to Araluen. Then he told of Evanlyn or Cassandra, how she'd recognized him as a Ranger and how he had saved her from that knight. He told about Deparnieux and their narrow escape. He told how he had tried to bring Evanlyn back to Araluen safely, only to run into the Moondarkers and Morgarath's men.

He knew far too many details about Pritchard, Cassandra, and the Rangers for Crowley to doubt his story; so he wasn't surprised when Crowley not only believed him but also promised instantly that he'd help Halt track down Morgarath's men and save the crown princess.

There was a moment of silence as they both stared into the fire Halt had made before Crowley spoke again.

"I can't believe Pritchard took on another student, and that I never heard of you. But it isn't surprising. News posited to me then was always out of date—Hogarth fief was pretty isolated, as I'm sure you remember. And after Pritchard was… well… They had seized all his letters and communications before I saw any of it… I wish I had known, I might have been able to help you, both of you somehow—stop his execution and your banishment."

There was a catch in his old friend's words, and Halt knew Crowley well enough to know by the look in his eyes that his not hearing of Pritchard's fate and inability to intervene had always been, and still was, one of his deepest regrets. Then Crowley shook his head, seeming to shake the feelings and memories away with it and forced a smile.

"Enough about that though, what's done is done I suppose. You're here now."

Halt raised an eyebrow.

"If Araluen ever needed her Rangers, it's now," Crowley explained. "I'm honestly hoping you're interested in making up for lost time."

"I take it that things aren't how I left them then?"

"Couldn't be farther from it; Morgarath as good as owns half of the country. And he is always trying for more. I'm actually supposed to be investigating rumors we received of a more recent plot—but if what you said about the princess is true, that trumps my previous mission."

Halt nodded his understanding and a silence drifted over their small camp.

Halt desperately wanted to ask Crowley about everything and everyone: Will, Pauline, Gilan, Arald. He needed to know that everyone he cared about was safe, and he needed to know the exact extent of the damage Morgarath had caused to the kingdom. But he knew that wasn't a wise course of action. Crowley might trust him for now, but asking about key people, battles, and places would only arouse Crowley's suspicions, so he refrained despite how much it hurt not to know that information.

He was also keenly aware that it was highly unlikely that Crowley would know anything about Will. He was the son of a minor sergeant and farmer after all. No, as much as he hated the thought, he knew he would have to wait patiently for the right opportunities to ask, or for when he could search for them all himself. Instead, he set himself to be contented with more basic information.

"You said that the kingdom was split almost in half. I found the border on the east coast, but where is it from there?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"It isn't a perfect half," Crowley said bitterly. "It cuts at an angle and sort of bows a little. Redmont fief belongs to Morgarath and Aspeinne is now a border fief in the King's lands—if that gives you more of an indication of the shape."

It did. Halt felt his heart rate increase slightly as he heard about Redmont and Aspienne. That put Arald, Rodney, Will, and a lot of the people he had known in danger. He took a small amount of comfort in the knowledge that at least Aspienne hadn't fallen to Morgarath. There was a chance that Will was still out there and alright. _Will_ … he felt a lump grow in his throat as he remembered those bright eager brown eyes.

"The fief that sits on the new border on the west coast is Highcliff," Crowley continued before he stopped, seeming to be waiting for some sort of reply from Halt.

Halt tried to gather his scattered thoughts and shove his worry down enough to respond, feigning only academic interest. "Highcliff fief is ruled by Baron Douglass as I recall? And Geron is the Battlemaster?"

"It was like that fifteen years ago—but hasn't been since the battle of Hackham Heath. Douglass is still the Baron, but Sir David has been appointed the new Battlemaster on account of Highcliff becoming a border fief. It makes it an important strategic position. The King thought it would be wise to post a more experienced commander there."

Halt nodded placidly but inwardly he was reeling. That turn in the conversation had provided him with the perfect opportunity to find out about two people that he had cared dearly for in that other time if he played his hand right.

"Sir David of Caraway fief, the cavalry commander? I remember meeting him before I was banished. He's a good man and a good commander. If he's minding the fief, I'm sure it's in good hands."

Crowley nodded in agreement. "That's the one. And yes, he is that."

Halt felt a small weight lift off him. He knew for certain that two people he cared dearly for were alive and well: Crowley and Sir David. But there was one more person he dearly needed to know about now that he had the chance.

"Sir David has a son, doesn't he?" Halt asked as casually as he could manage.

Crowley's smile faded a little.

"Had a son," Crowley corrected him. "Sir David lost him not too long after the Battle of Hackham Heath."

His friend's words had not been either dismissive, unfeeling, or cruel; he was simply stating what he knew to be a fact. But despite that, they still hit Halt like a punch to the gut.

After a moment, he found a pretense to leave in gathering more firewood. He walked away in a daze wanting nothing more at that moment than the company of solitude. Once he was a decent distance from their camp, he stopped under the shadow of a tree before reaching out a numb hand to steady himself against its thick trunk. His breathing became as ragged as if all the wind had been knocked out of him as he tried to process all he had heard.

Gilan was dead? Dead... His hands were trembling. He couldn't breathe. _Dead_. He felt his legs buckle underneath him and he sank slowly down to the ground, still struggling to get air into his lungs, through a throat that was nearly closed with the ever-building pain of grief. The chill autumn wind cut bitterly into the wetness on his face, but Halt hardly felt it.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. It shouldn't have been like this—couldn't be like this... That steadily building self-loathing that had plagued him ever since he had first remembered gave suddenly away into hatred. Morgarath... he had done this—and Halt had as good as let him. He gritted his teeth even as his vision swam. There wasn't going to be some happy fairy-tale ending to this. No heroic tale of overcoming odds. It simply was. The hatred gave focus to a grim resolve.

He might have failed to save them all... save Gilan... and maybe he couldn't change that, maybe he couldn't fix this. But he could end the person who had truly caused all this, could end the person who had brought his friends so much pain—destroyed everything before it truly had the chance to start. Maybe he was already too late to save everyone... but he could still save Evanlyn, he could find Will—and avenge everyone else.

"I'm sorry Gilan."

 **~x~X~x~**

Tennyson glared down at the mercenary at his feet, furious for being taken for a fool. It wasn't often that someone played him like this, he thought bitterly. And he certainly didn't appreciate it. He dropped the act of kindly, humble, priest in an instant. Knowing it was safe to do so because all those around him were in his inner circle and knew the extent of everything. He took a menacing step forward.

"So you thought you could con me, did you, mercenary? You thought you could play both sides, make money off my need while your friends stole from me? I don't know how you got the information to pull this off, but it matters little now. I might not have the tithes," he said a sarcastic edge to the word, "and I might not have your two friends… but I do have you."

Before he'd even finished speaking, he struck forward, lost in his fury. The blow connected with the mercenary's face and the power of it sent him sprawling, leaving Tennyson's bodyguard to pull the mercenary back up to his knees.

Tennyson leaned forward and grabbed the mercenary's hair, forcing his head back and speaking in his ear. "So, now, let me tell you what is going to happen. You are going to tell me where I will find your two young friends and my tithes." He let go of the man's hair. "Where. Are. They?" He demanded following each word with another blow while his bodyguards held the man in place.

He stopped, panting for breath waiting for the man to answer. The mercenary only shrugged, a casual uncaring gesture that the situation made more than a little infuriating. He spat blood and then said simply, "I don't know."

The angry growl that sprang from Tennyson's lips was nearly as startling to him as the ferocity of his next strike.

"I'll ask you one more time: where are they? Where did you arrange to meet?"

But the mercenary didn't answer, just looked him over deliberately, carefully, as if committing his face to memory before steadily meeting his gaze, his lips twisting up in a faint, humorless, and bloody smile. Tennyson was taken aback. It was more than a little unsettling. A man in the mercenary's position really shouldn't be smiling at him like that. But he quickly turned the unnerved feeling into rage.

"You will tell me! _One way or the other…_ "

* * *

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading! Leave a review if you've a mind to! I'd enjoy hearing your thoughts. Also don't hesitate to let me know if you see any room for improvement or have any suggestions. I'm learning after all, so input is very valuable.

There should only one more part left to this little chapter arc. Also, for those who have been asking, there will be some answers as to the nature of Gilan's past next chapter. The full story, though, won't probably wont come out until four to five more chapters in—depending on how things go.

I wish you all the best until next time!


	16. Chapter 15

**A/N:** Hi everyone! Next chapter is out! This one is pretty long, (8,000 words) so I do apologize if that's not to your liking. I hadn't really intended to make it this long, but I had more ends to tie up and connect than I originally thought, so sorry about that. As promised, more about the nature of Gilan's past is revealed this chapter, but, again, the full story probably won't come out until about 4 or so more chapters in, depending on how things go. Anyhow, I hope this chapter proves to be exciting/enjoyable.

 **VanyaNoldo22:** Thanks so much for leaving a review! And thanks so much for your kind words, it really is very encouraging, and it totally made my day to read. This story actually sprang from a discussion with one of my friends about how much of an integral part of everything Halt is. He really is at the center of a lot of things in RA which is why we wondered what would have happened if he hadn't been there. Don't worry, things will be getting better for Halt (I promise). XD *hugs back* Thanks again!

 **Lilly-daughter of Radolso:** Yeah, Halt is not having the best time at the moment—but things will eventually start looking up for him. It is very possible that Crowley could notice something off about Halt: I'd love to include your idea/suggestion. I'll see if I can fit it somewhere in the outline. I'm glad/relieved that you think I'm doing a decent job of incorporating and writing all the characters (It's a little daunting trying to tell all their stories XD and I worry often about getting them right.) Thanks for being patient with me and my snail-paced writing, and thanks for the review! I really appreciate it!

 **TrustTheCloak:** I hope this wasn't too long of a wait XD Thanks so much for the review/compliment/encouragement. It really is encouraging/exciting to know I'm doing alright with the characters, character interactions, and plot X). Halt is definitely having a hard time (but things will eventually get better for him). So, you're not wrong in your guess: the Kalkara do have something to do with Gilan and Sir David's past, but it might not be exactly how you think (or, rather, there's a little more to it). X) Thanks so much for reading and for your reviews! They both made my day!

 **Oceanera12:** I hope I didn't make you loose too much sleep X). I'm really glad you like it so far. Don't worry Halt is definitely going to go after Morgarath. Thanks so much for the review! I really appreciate it!

 **Guest** **12/22** : Aww thanks :3 I'm not as good at it as I'd like (seeing as how it sometimes takes me way too long to get chapters out), but at least I'm trying XD. I can totally relate to staying up too late because of youtube… Thanks again for the review.

 **Random Flyer:** Would it help if I said I couldn't help it? *innocent smile* You've got some really amazing predictions and you may or may not be right about a few of them. I also really like the idea of Halt having to chase down Will and co. Thanks for the compliments, and the advice. I really appreciate your support and suggestions. I do love _not_ falling into traps. I do have the entire plot mapped out and I am (scouts honor) making an effort not to make it really complex or unpredictable as all the characters eventually join up and underlying connections between characters get revealed. I had a path that felt natural that I went with, so I hope it's good enough. I'm also trying not to let sub-plots get out of hand either: so, I'll definitely keep your advice in mind. Thanks again!

Also, special thanks to: **ArcedArrow, Gerbilfriend,** **Guest** **12/18, Ranger-of-the-shadows,** and **jaymzNshed**. Thanks so much for the support and your reviews! It really means a lot. You guys are awesome.

* * *

 **Chapter 15: Memories and Outsiders Part III**

 **~x~X~x~**

 _A Few Years After the Battle of Hackham Heath_

 **~x~X~x~**

 _Today was his birthday, and he was alone… unless he was going to count the rats, but Gilan had already decided that he was_ never _going to count the rats. There were other people around, of course, but he couldn't see them. They were all separated by walls and bars and chains. Besides that, it was dark at the moment—but, then again, it was always dark here: dark, and damp and cold._

 _The damp seemed to get everywhere: in the old straw they'd brought in for bedding, the cracks of the stone walls, his clothes, and even his bones. It was one of the things he hated most about this place, aside from the rats. The rats were as half-starved as the prisoners. Hunger often drove them to be bold enough to attempt to nibble at a captive if given a chance. Rats would eat almost anything. Nobody got much sleep if they were smart. He thought about that for a moment and then amended his previous thoughts slightly; he really hated everything about this place equally._

 _Perhaps if it wasn't so damp it would smell less foul he thought then, wryly. It was the smell of dank moldering stones mixed with the scent of unwashed bodies, open privy pots, and their rather unpleasant contents. The latter were hardly ever cleaned out. He'd been here for a month now and had yet to see any such maintenance. The Baron's hunting dogs were kept in better conditions then they were._

 _Nobody dared complain about that though, for fear of a beating from the guards. The guards were already free enough with their sporadic, almost casual, displays of cruelty without being provoked. He had been on the receiving end of it more than enough to know. Their attention to him was probably due to the ugly nature of the crime he'd been convicted of; that and the fact that he was the son of their commanding officer. That crime would indeed seem like a betrayal to them and everything they stood for._

 _And one of the guards, the one who was by far the cruelest, Gilan knew had been a friend of the person who had died because of…. He gritted his teeth as he thought it. He brought his hands up to rest either side of his head; if he ever regretted anything in his life, he regretted… he regretted…. He shook his head abruptly, dwelling on that did him little good at the moment._

 _What he should be focusing on was ideas on how to do something about the guards and their behavior. Gilan knew that those beatings, casual and sporadic as they were, weren't allowed. But he also knew that if he tried to complain, or bring attention to it, it would be his word against the guards': the word of a court-martialed and condemned criminal over that of trusted officers. And, even if they'd listen long enough for Gilan to show them the obvious proof, the guards would likely just make up some convenient excuse about how Gilan had tried to escape and that it had taken a little bit of a scuffle to subdue him or how he'd gotten into a fight with another prisoner. There wasn't really anything he could do. The other prisoners that were treated harshly obviously knew that too, which was why nobody spoke. Maybe, Gilan thought idly then, it was the foul conditions and smell down here that put the guards in such a bad mood in the first place—ironic if that was true._

 _He probably smelled too, he realized, his mouth twitching upwards at the corners in mild amusement despite the situation. In his current state, it would probably be difficult to tell him apart from the grimy walls he leaned against. Maybe, if he held completely still, they would think that he had escaped when they came to bring him food—if the unwanted scraps from the castle's kitchen that they brought down could indeed be called that_. _That didn't matter all that much to him though. He wasn't really hungry anyway. He hadn't had much of an appetite since that night._

 _A bitter half-chuckle escaped his lips as he studied his grime coated body critically and unseriously considered his earlier idea of making it look as if he'd escaped in order to actually escape. It would take a little artistry but he might be able to make himself looks like the walls—he had little else, or better, to do anyway._

 _His mild and momentary flare of interest vanished as soon as his eyes lit upon the heavy manacles on his wrists that attached him to the floor of his prison by a longish chain. It was long enough to allow him relative freedom of movement, but not long enough for him to be able to walk the perimeter of his cell in all directions. He couldn't quite make it to the bars at the front or to the far right wall. He could reach the back and left wall though, evidenced by the fact that he was currently leaning against the left wall, and the back wall bore several long hatch lines carved into the moldering bricks where he'd marked off the days. That was how he knew it was his birthday today. He was fifteen now—for all that it mattered down here._

 _His birthday… usually, it was a word that signified a fairly joyous occasion. Several unbidden pleasant memories flashed through his mind of birthdays past: going riding through the woods, feeling sunlight on his face, and having fun, all around him filled with the simple joy of life and of living. He felt his eyes beginning to sting and he quickly shoved those memories away._

 _Sniffing softly, he pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them even as he rested his chin atop them too. He stared dully out at the bars of his cell, trying not to think of sunlight and open spaces or of a time when everything seemed so much simpler and brighter. Instead, he focused on the pain in his wrists that came from the chafing of the chains that encircled them. His eyes stared out at the shadows, but he couldn't see much. It was dark here_ … _but it was_ always _dark here_.

 _A hoarse wracking cough echoed through the shrouded passages from, perhaps, a few cells down; he couldn't really tell. Another person had taken ill from the awful, filthy, conditions, he knew. He hoped he wasn't going to be next. He closed his eyes, but it brought him little relief or comfort. He was still surrounded by the dark, the damp_ …the cold. _He shivered._

Today was his birthday and he was alone.

 **~x~X~x~**

Gilan regained consciousness slowly. He stirred, awareness and pain becoming a faint backdrop that steadily grew. He groaned softly. His body ached with fever and his face from the hits he'd taken. Gradually, he became aware of an uncomfortably familiar, heavy, and tight sensation in his wrists. He pulled at it and felt resistance.

He woke fully with a sharp intake of breath, sitting up and tugging at the manacles that bound his wrists together. His gaze fixed sharply on the length of chain that secured him to the middle of the floor. A cold sinking sensation of pins and needles mingled with the spike in his heart rate. His breathing quickened and sharpened as the combination of experience and sensation spiraled him back into the grip of memories that he'd tried so long to bury. His hands were shaking ever so slightly and he was shivering, uncertain if it was because of the fever, the feeling, and flood of memories, or perhaps all of those combined.

 _Trapped._

Then he shook his head to clear it, to see past the confused, feverish memories. He wasn't that fifteen-year-old boy anymore, and this wasn't Highcliff fief. He breathed slowly, deliberately, forcing the muscles in his body to relax one by one. He laid his hands flat against his knees. Willing and breathing away that sensation of cold dread and panic. He cursed softly.

He took another deep breath and then took stock of his situation. He was in an iron cage out in the open of what must be the camp of the bandits of Balsennis. The cage itself was tall enough for him to stand upright in and wide enough for him to be able to touch either side—were he in the middle and able to spread his arms. A glance to the left showed him two other cages like the one he was in, though those weren't currently unoccupied.

Thinking about what the Outsiders did with those cages was a line of thought he didn't really want to pursue at the moment—especially when considering his confrontation with Tennyson the night before. He gingerly touched his bruised face.

Whether due to his fever, a lucky blow to the head, or perhaps a combination of both, Gilan had lost consciousness before Tennyson had really gotten started with his angry impromptu interrogation the previous night. And they'd brought him here, Gilan supposed, to keep the villagers oblivious to this side of Alseiass's religion—at least, that what the phrase _'one way or the other'_ conjured up visions of. Gilan blew out a long slow breath. He couldn't say that he was enchanted with the image that threat implied.

He lowered his hands, he could feel no serious damage on his person. He'd had worse before… his eyes settled on the chains that bound his wrists. _Much worse_. His hands twitched reflexively at the thought and he quickly turned his focus elsewhere. Unfortunately, the image he eventually settled on really wasn't much of an improvement he thought with a bitter inward smile. He watched silently as none other than Tennyson approached his cage.

"I see you're awake now," Tennyson's voice sounded as he circled the cage. Gilan turned to watch the white-robed priest and the movement filled him with a wave of dizziness and nausea. The fever really wasn't helping.

"I hope your accommodations have given you the opportunity to think about your position and your choices," he continued, stopping to stand close to the bars. His voice once again held that warm, caring, and grandfatherly tone, before it dropped abruptly, "And, if not, then I assure you that the memory of last night's encounter will become nothing but a pleasant one compared to what's going to await you today.

"You see," he continued conversationally, "today is the festival of fire: sacrifices must be made to Balsennis. I think I told you before that the bandits of Balsennis were brutal." The grandfatherly tone had come back but this time it was tempered with menace and false regret. "Balsennis is often not satisfied unless his sacrifice has spent hours under the touch of the flames. His sacrifice victims are hardly even human by the time the final blow is struck."

Gilan's face twitched slightly. It wasn't an idle threat. His eyes followed Tennyson's sweeping hand motion towards where the bandits were already busy getting wood together for a massive bonfire.

"Pity Alseiass doesn't have the tithes he needs to protect you," Tennyson said.

Gilan wondered idly how long it had taken for Tennyson to come up with this little plan and speech, and if he had used it before on anyone else. Neither thought increased his opinion of the man any.

Tennyson, for his part, watched the mercenary closely as soon as he'd finished his threat. For a moment, the man's bruised face went entirely blank: likely a result of shock or fear. Then Tennyson smiled, enjoying how the young man's expression finally broke at the same time as his will. It felt vindicating, especially after the humiliation he'd suffered on account of this mercenary the night before. Pretending not to notice, he made as if to leave. As he predicted, he was stopped by the mercenary's hoarse and quiet voice.

"Wait..."

Tennyson didn't, forcing him to voice the plea again.

"Wait, please," the mercenary begged.

Tennyson did turn around then.

"If I tell you where to find the boys and your tithes, will you let me go unharmed?"

"Of course, my boy," Tennyson said kindly. "Truthfully, I don't want to see anyone hurt. And, if you don't force my hand, I see no reason to harm you."

"Then I'll show you—I'll lead you there."

Tennyson scoffed. "So you can warn them or lead my men and I into a trap? I think not." He pulled out a chart of the surrounding area. "Show me where on this. My men and I will go while you remain here. If you direct us true, then I'll let you go. I give you my word."

The young mercenary hesitated.

"It's your only option," Tennyson warned.

Finally, his prisoner moved towards the bars, reaching his manacled hands out as far as the chain would allow. Tennyson slipped the chart through the bars and the mercenary pointed reluctantly. Tennyson noted the spot with a smile.

"For your sake, my boy, I hope you are telling the truth."

Anguished eyes met his. "Just don't harm the boys, please."

"Of course not," Tennyson said soothingly, turning and striding away, already calling orders to his men—not noticing how the prisoner's apparent distress and fear dropped away the moment Tennyson's back was turned, nor the dangerous icy look that hardened his eyes.

 **~x~X~x~**

Will crouched in the shade of some trees, Horace beside him. His growing worry and frustration was making it hard to think and hard to stand still. It was as if Gilan had just dropped off the face of the earth. The night before, he had snooped around the village, listening and eavesdropping for hours for any hint to his friend's whereabouts. Perhaps if he'd been able to show himself, it might have yielded better results, or more opportunities to try and discover information. But, as it was, he had left the previous night without learning anything.

When it became obvious that Gilan really wasn't coming back, Horace and Will had packed up everything and had moved their camp to a different location, making certain to hide their trail and not light a fire just as Gilan had told them to do in situations like this. That act only intensified the unease and worry, making their predicament all that more real. It was as if by following this protocol they were throwing out any hint of denial that Gilan was missing and probably in trouble.

Now that it was day once more, Will was at it again. This time Horace had come with him. Horace had never mastered silent movement and covert observation as well as Will had, but he had insisted on coming and Will couldn't refuse him. Will couldn't risk trying to go into the village at broad daylight anyway, so it was safe enough for both of them to just observe the town itself from their hidden position—and it had been hours.

Just as Will was despairing of ever learning anything this way, he heard something. It wasn't coming from the direction of the village but rather from behind them. Will froze and didn't need to signal for Horace to do likewise. It was one of the first rules of unseen movement that had been drilled into them. It was often movement that gave a person away. Both boys held deathly still, listening as what sounded like a small army crossed just behind their position. Even when it sounded like all the men had passed, both boys stayed frozen still longer: a practiced precaution against sweepers.

When they finally deemed it safe to move again, they headed out from cover to see what had just passed by them. Even with the line of men facing away from them, they could still recognize several people from the day before—the watch and town members that had chased them. There were many other men with them, all armed. Every last one of them was being led by a white-robed priest. Their steps were purposeful. Will knew that, if they continued on in that direction, it would lead them straight towards where Gilan, Horace, and Will had initially made camp. Will and Horace didn't even need to say anything as they looked from the line of men to each other and finally to the very obvious trail the men had left behind. They only paused briefly to fetch Gilan's horse from where they had secured her before following the trail, heading towards wherever it was that that party of men had come from.

The trail eventually led to a very large camp in the woods. They stopped a fair ways back—keenly aware of the picket guards stationed around the encampment. Somehow, Will knew that this was probably where Gilan had ended up. He thought he could just see the tops of iron cages towards the middle of the camp and shielded from view by the many tents around them. It was obvious Horace had seen them too. Will was about to signal for them to move back so they could make a plan when an explosion of noise drew their attention back to the camp.

 **~x~X~x~**

Once Tennyson had mustered his men and left, there were only about six men left to guard the camp by Gilan's count. Gilan, despite the fever and spinning in his head, watched them carefully, waiting. He knew well that this was his best and possibly only chance to get away.

When Tennyson had given him the map, Gilan had honestly pointed to the place where he, Horace, and Will had made camp the day before. He had no fear of the false priest finding them. They had a protocol put in place for instances like this. Horace and Will knew that, if Gilan didn't make it back when he was expected, they were to move their camp. That way, they'd be safe if something was ever to go wrong like this and Gilan would be able to track them down later.

He hoped that by giving Tennyson the honest location of a fairly fresh camp it might buy him time and cool the false priest's anger if he was unable to find a way to escape before the man returned. But it was still a gamble, everything was a gamble. Gilan brought his chained hands up to his face, wishing that he could rub at his temples as he painfully tried to clear his throat. He closed his eyes, trying to think, trying to focus.

Before he had the chance, however, he was startled by the sound of banging against the bars of his prison. Opening his eyes, he focused them on one of the bandits who had been left behind: a gangly looking man with ferret-like features. The man rammed the butt of the spear he carried against the cage again.

"I really hope you lied to Tennyson," he sneered, his face pinched in anger and the light of revenge burning in his eyes. "Your little stunt caused me to lose face as well as my high position. Apparently, I'm no longer trustworthy or dependable enough. I'm stuck doing menial work for a month—including guarding you. Needless to say, I'd enjoy seeing you burn for it."

Gilan's eyes narrowed. So this man must be Kenton—the one who was responsible for losing or mishandling the tithes in the first place: the one whom Gilan had initially been hired to track. Gilan sniffed and then coughed involuntarily before trying to focus on Kenton. He clearly saw the anger in Kenton's eyes and something else: the keys that hung from the man's belt.

Gilan's head was clogged with sickness and every joint was aching with fever, so it took him a little longer than normal to see the opportunity for what it was—but he did see it.

In truth, he really couldn't have been given a better one—or at a better time of day. Giving no hint to his thoughts, Gilan turned away from the man with an uncaring shrug, putting his back to the cell door as well as to the sun. He sat placidly on his knees, purposely presenting himself as an easy target. On the ground in front of him, however, he tracked Kenton's every movement by his shadow, which he could clearly see on the ground before him.

"Nothing to say mercenary?" the man growled at him.

"Not really," Gilan said with another shrug. He heard the man growl again in answer to that and then added, "But I do suppose an apology is in order."

The man fell quiet behind him so Gilan could tell he caught his full attention with that. So thinking, he spoke on.

"I'm sorry you got blamed for this whole fiasco. What they did to you is unfair and it's obviously no one but Tennyson's fault," he said, his words edged with uncaring. "You couldn't help being born with the intelligence you have any more than you could help how you look. So, instead of getting angry and punishing you for failing, Tennyson should have just given you tasks you could actually handle from the start."

"Tasks I can handle?! I'll fix that mouth of yours!" Kenton snarled.

"Noooo," Gilan drew out the word, purposefully fanning the man's anger. "I don't think you will—or can."

In response he heard the man grind his teeth, his breathing becoming faster and heavier with rage.

"Is that what you think?" he snarled. Then came the telling jingle of keys being drawn forward and inserted into the lock on the cage. Gilan didn't turn, however, merely continued to sit with his back to the man, forcing himself to look completely relaxed as he watched the man's every move by his shadow, eyes narrowed. He knew he would only have one shot at this. He could feel his heartbeat racing in his chest, every muscle tense despite his apparent nonchalance.

Kenton, for his part, was so angry that it took a moment to still his shaking hands enough to open the lock. He flung the cage door open, slipping the key back into his belt loop before taking a firmer grip on his spear. He raised the weapon, aiming it to bring it cracking down on his prisoners' exposed and vulnerable back and shoulders. At that moment, he thought he really couldn't have asked for an easier target to vent his rage on. The prisoner would soon learn the dangers of crossing him. He started his swing. It was far wilder than precise with rage. Expecting to hear the sharp crack of contact and feel resistance as the strike his home, he was caught off guard when the shaft of his weapon was halted dead in its tracks sooner than he had expected.

Surprised, he realized that the prisoner had somehow caught the shaft of his spear in the cleft of the chains that bound his wrists without even turning to look. Before he even had a chance to recover from his shock, Gilan, with a deft moment, twisted and pulled the spear from his stunned hands before rising, whirling, and turning the weapon on Kenton. The man was sent to the ground with two lightning fast and precise blows.

Gilan pulled the man's unconscious body toward him until he could get a hold of the keys on the man's belt loop. From there, it was simply a matter of finding which key fit the lock to his shackles. Then he gagged and chained Kenton in his place once he was free. He rose to his feet again, this time having to press one hand against the bars of the cage as he fought through a wave of vertigo. He muffled a cough as best as he could before sweeping his eyes around the camp. None of the picket guards had seemed to have heard or become aware of the disturbance.

Gilan then set his sights towards the tent he'd pegged as the command tent. Tennyson had had his weapons confiscated the night before and Gilan guessed that that was where they were being kept. Those weapons had been the difference between life and death for him more times than he could count and he needed them back. As he covertly made his way to the tent, he noticed with mild concern that the ground around him seemed to be heaving and spinning ever so slightly. He felt like he was burning up, even though he knew it was a cool autumn day out.

Eventually, he stopped in the shade of the command tent. Glancing around once more, to ensure that he'd remained unobserved, he stepped cautiously inside. He held the spear at the ready but the tent was empty.

It was easy enough to find and retrieve his weapons. Once he'd secured them to his person, he fell into a wracking coughing fit that he desperately tried to muffle. He knew that the noise could alert the guards, and knew that he'd never be able to defend against so many in the condition he was in. He curled in on himself pressing both hands against his mouth and trying desperately to stop and hold the coughing in. Involuntary tears from the strain prickled against his eyes as he strove not to make a sound. All of that only seemed to increase the dizziness and he nearly doubled over—forced to lean against the work desk that had been placed against one canvas wall to keep from falling.

The action disturbed some of the papers that had been stacked there, partially revealing one closer to the bottom, a broken wax seal still visible along one edge. Gilan froze when he saw it. It took a moment of before he could move his hand away from his mouth to pull it from the pile.

He refolded the parchment to make the broken yellow seal whole again and frowned at the symbol that was reformed by the action: an all too familiar lightning bolt. Why should the Outsider cult be communicating with Morgarath? Gilan reopened the letter with one hand, again having to press the knuckles of the other into his mouth in a desperate attempt to muffle another coughing fit as he read the contents.

 _Ensure that this gift reaches the head of your order as a gesture of good faith and proof of the mutual benefits of our partnership and agreement._

Gilan scanned the rest of the letter and then several others. Gradually a picture of what was going on started to form and it wasn't a pretty one.

From what he could tell, Tennyson, in the hopes of rising in the ranks of the Outsider order, and in an attempt to garner favor from the order's head, had been negotiating a deal with Morgarath. It detailed the sharing of funds and support. All of that was bad, but what was worse was that Tennyson had agreed on behalf of the cult to aid and support any incursions, whether covertly or overtly, that Morgarath might make into the western side of the King's lands. Gilan knew well that the cult had indeed gained a very strong foothold in the west coast. If they supported an incursion from Morgarath the results could be devastating. In return for this support, Morgarath had promised to support the Outsider cult in turn and install it as an official religion in all of his holdings—including any new land he might conquer.

From there, it didn't take a genius to figure out that 'gift' mentioned in the first letter was probably the 'tithes' that had started this whole mess. They were a bribe to convince the Outsider's leader to accept Tennyson and Morgarath's alliance. It explained why Tennyson was so desperate to get them all back. The only part he still didn't understand was how Horace and Will had gotten ahold of the tithes and why—unless they were simply convenient fall men for a conniving and greedy group member. Regardless, this put a new imperative edge to his escape.

If this alliance was ever to be properly formed it could spell disaster for the King and what was left of Araluen. As a general rule, there was not much love lost between Gilan and most officials and authorities: the nobility, knights, and Barons. His stance towards them and deeper politics of the kingdom was often little more than apathetic, that was true. But Gilan had seen Morgarath's lands and the way he ruled… Needless to say, this was information he needed to get to the King immediately—or, more accurately put, to a particular contact of his.

He decided against taking the actual letters with him and instead put them back the way they had been initially. It would be better if neither Morgarath nor the Outsiders knew that anyone had found out about their schemes. That done, he made his way out of the tent, staggering slightly.

Then he froze as he found himself face to face with one of the picket guards. The guard froze too for a moment before he drew his sword and took a breath in order to alert the others that the prisoner had escaped. But he never managed it. Gilan's stolen spear was sent hurtling into his chest before the man could finish closing the distance between them. The man fell unmoving to the ground without a sound other than a gasp and the thud of his body.

Gilan quickly dragged the man's body back into the command tent. The dizziness increased when he straightened again and blackness threatened to overtake his vision. It took a moment for the feeling to pass. Gilan took several deep breaths before he again left the tent. Using all the skill he had in unseen movement, he made his way back through the camp then halted in the shadow of another tent. There was another picket guard standing sentinel near the direction he needed to take in order to escape. The area around the man was clear and without any cover. Gilan fought again to stop himself from coughing.

There would be no way for him to sneak past that sentinel unseen. Gilan quietly drew his bow and knocked an arrow as he weighed his options. He didn't have time to wait for a shift change; every second diminished both his chances and the kingdom's. In the state he was in, he couldn't really risk trying to get close either. Grimly, he started to draw back on his bow and was unable to stop and fully muffle his next cough.

The picket heard it and whirled in Gilan's direction, crossbow aimed directly at him as the man saw him. He shouted, pulling the release. The crossbow bolt tore into the tent fabric just above Gilan's head, milliseconds after Gilan's arrow found its mark in the man's chest.

Knowing that the shout would have alerted the other guards, Gilan moved to cross the open ground as quickly as he could. His only chance would be to try and make it to the woods and find cover before the other pickets caught up to him. But Gilan knew he had little chance of making it. He was already as good as caught. Despite this, he continued on grimly, still trying.

The spinning in his head and aching in his body had only steadily grown, so had the heat from the fever and from his bruises. Still, he refused to stop, couldn't stop. The spinning feeling was soon joined by lightheadedness. Blackness began creeping into the edges of his vision even as he felt the exhaustion and slackness seeping into his muscles, weakening and slowing his strides. He tried to viciously shove the feeling back as he kept moving. He was nearly to the tree line, nearly to cover.

He blinked dazedly as three shapes seemed to materialize right before him. He shuddered to a stop, making a flinching motion towards his sword before he recognized Will, Horace, and his horse.

"Will… Horace?" he managed to choke out before the effort of staying conscious grew to be that much too much. He swayed, lurching forward as the blackness claimed him entirely.

Will and Horace only just managed to catch him before he hit the ground. Somehow they both managed to lift him up over the saddle of his horse sideways before grabbing the reins and tearing off into the woods. Unfortunately, one of the pickets had indeed heard the other one's shout and was coming after them fast. Will yelled for Horace to keep going even as he drew his recurve bow and knocked an arrow. He ducked behind a tree to avoid a crossbow bolt, stepping out as soon as it passed, drawing aiming and firing as he'd practiced for hours.

The picket fell to the ground with a cry, Will's arrow through the fleshy part of his thigh. Will turned and ran then, catching up with Horace and keeping an ear out for any more sounds of pursuit.

 **~x~X~x~**

Lady Pauline casually slipped the message she had encoded to the woman who was manning the Waypost. Like most Courier Wayposts this one doubled as a place of business: a leatherworker's shop in this instance. And, like all Wayposts, this one served as a center of Courier operation.

The Diplomatic Corps had established many such centers in certain fiefs and key towns. They were hubs for gathering and dispersing intelligence and information, and usually had access to pigeon handlers for delivering urgent information. Very few people knew of their existence. Those were limited to members of the Diplomatic Corps, Rangers, and a few select contacts.

When Pauline had realized that their ride would take them near one, she had encoded a message—or, more aptly, had sent word for a contract to be put out at all the wayposts. With the message delivered, Pauline inclined her head towards her young apprentice. Alyss, who had been studying some of the leatherwork on display, nodded and followed her mentor outside.

"Are you hoping your contact will pick up the contract, as a failsafe?" Alyss asked as the two of them moved to remount their horses.

Pauline nodded. "That's the hope anyway,"

The problem was that there was no guarantee that he would come to a waypost, or would even be anywhere near the vicinity of one, and so no guarantee that he'd get the message at all. But if there was any chance of increasing the odds that they'd get the confirmation and information they needed—and any chance for her to send any sort of help or backup to Crowley—then she considered it worthwhile. She frowned as she guided her horse back to the main road, thinking of Crowley. It was part of their jobs to be in harm's way and take risks: they both knew and accepted that—but that didn't really make it any easier.

Alyss had urged her own mount forward until she was able to keep pace with her mentor. Alyss gave her a conspiratorial sidelong glance then admitted, "I'm worried about Ranger Crowley too."

Pauline shook her head slightly, wondering when it was that her apprentice had become so adept at reading her. "Let's just hope that, once we have the information, we'll be able to counter any move Morgarath will make—and maybe find a way to end this war."

"At least then we'll have to worry less," Alyss agreed.

It didn't take long for them to catch up with the rest of their party, and then they set off at a brisk pace. It would only take about another day before they would reach Highcliff fief and Baron Arald.

 **~x~X~x~**

Will stumbled back to where they had made camp—or, rather, to where Horace had made camp while Will had set about covering their tracks and laying a false trail. Horace had likewise picked a campsite that was both hidden and easily defendable. It was situated on higher ground, had good cover, and was hard to access.

Will sat down with a heavy sigh. Horace jumped a little, not having heard him make his approach.

"Anything?" Horace asked nervously, hand straying towards the hilt of his sword.

But Will shook his head. "Nothing. I scouted several kilometers back but didn't see anyone."

Will saw Horace's shoulders slump slightly in relief, but the tension was still there and he knew why.

"How's Gil?" he asked.

"Not good," Horace admitted with a helpless gesture towards Gilan. It was obvious the bigger boy had tried his best to help the injuries. But Gilan was still out cold, or sleeping, his face pale and clammy where there were no bruises. Even under the blanket, he was shivering slightly.

"The injuries weren't so bad from what I can tell. I think it's just the fever that's the problem. It's pretty high and I don't know what to do about it." Fear and helplessness were making his voice crack slightly. "I tried to do what he did for us when we were sick with this, but I'm not sure I remembered everything right."

Will glanced back at Gilan, feeling just as helpless, just as worried as Horace. Will had never seen Gilan defeated before. Gilan had always been the one with the plan, the one who always knew what to do in whatever situation they faced. They'd been in dozens of skirmishes and deadly situations and always came out on top. The sight of him lying there badly sick with a bruised face was jarringly contrary to Will's image of him. Gilan had always been well… Gilan. Will felt horribly out of his depth—insufficient. He didn't know what to do. Then he shook his head trying to shake off that feeling of helplessness.

"Tell me what you did," Will said. "One of my friends back in Bawtry was a healer, maybe I can fill in anything you might have missed."

Not too long ago, Horace would probably have bristled at the suggestion—but he had been learning that not knowing something didn't have to be a weakness or a threat. And besides, this was Gilan they were talking about. He was in a bad way and Horace was in over his head and willing to accept any sort of help.

A few hours later, Will sat back on his haunches. He'd done everything he could think of. All they could do was wait—even if it felt like they hadn't done enough or done everything right. The two shared a quiet, cold meal and started to settle in for the night. As the evening wore on, Gilan started shifting uncomfortably, coughing and muttering in his sleep. Most of the muttering was incoherent but there were a few words that seemed to be repeated far more often than others. It all centered on something about 'fire'. The only other words Will could catch were 'stop', 'sorry', and 'no'.

"Fire?" Horace repeated before turning to Will. "Think he's cold?"

Will bit his lip, feeling even more helpless than before as he worried that his friend had taken a turn for the worst. The autumn night held a chill and Gilan was still shivering slightly, so it made sense that he might be cold. But there really wasn't much they could do if he was. It was too risky to light a fire—which was why he hadn't been able to make willow bark tea for Gilan's fever.

Horace's expression turned grim as he read Will's thoughts. They just couldn't risk a fire. So they did the only thing they could think of. They staked their blankets on top of Gilan's and took turns laying down next to him and keeping watch—hoping that the extra blankets and body heat would be enough. And all night long they watched, waited, and worried. Will couldn't stop the feeling of unease: that he might have forgotten a step, had done something wrong, or not good enough. What if Gilan got so sick that he...? Will shuddered at the thought. Needless to say, neither boy got much sleep that night.

The next morning, both boys kept up their vigil. As the sun rose steadily towards the middle of the sky, Horace leaned forward to do another temperature check. He couldn't stop the small, steadily growing feeling of hope. Gilan hadn't woken yet, but as the night and morning had worn on, his fitful tossing had lessened and his fever had been gradually decreasing. At first, he had thought it was just his imagination and wishful thinking, but the last time he'd checked, Gilan had felt noticeably cooler to the touch. Horace hoped now that the trend would continue. He put a gentle hand on his friend's forehead.

The effect of that action was surprisingly explosive.

Gilan's eyes snapped open and he flinched violently at the touch, moving back. In his eyes was a look so hard, flat, and dangerous that Horace flinched back as well. Gilan's mouth twisted in a snarl—until his fevered eyes recognized Horace and Will.

"Horace? Will?" he asked hoarsely, his eyes confused, "where… what…" he started to ask but was cut off by a coughing fit that left him laying weakly back down against the bedding with a groan.

Surprise and worry melted slowly away into relief, as Horace moved forward again. Gilan was awake and coherent and that counted for a lot. He found himself smiling.

"It's alright," Horace reassured him. "We got away from those bandits… uh, Outsiders? I picked a defendable and hidden spot several kilometers away."

"And I hid our trail and made false ones leading away from us—like you showed me," Will took over for Horace. "We've been keeping watch and I scouted several times."

"Your fever was pretty high but we tried our best to help it," Horace added. "We wanted to make you some willow bark tea, but we couldn't risk a fire. But I don't know if you really need it now, your fever's gone down a lot."

Gilan's eyes had been dazedly switching between the two of them as he followed their conversation. His expression changed from worried and confused to dumbfounded.

"But…" he stared.

"Everything's taken care of, and we are all safe, so you can rest," Will finished finally with a smile.

There was still a measure of uncertainty in Gilan's expression, but Will had the feeling it wasn't really directed at them. Gilan didn't doubt their words or abilities. No, Will recognized the look as something else because he'd seen it in Horace and felt it in himself quite a bit since they'd all started traveling together. It was uncertainty that came from being unaccustomed all of this: un-used to people caring so much or being able to rely on, even trust in, someone else to keep you safe. There was also, Will noticed, a deep look of gratitude, relief, fondness even, in his eyes that both boys caught and shared.

They were all going to be alright.

Gilan shook his head with a faint, tired smile.

"When you said that everything's been taken care of," he began haltingly, "I hope you meant it in the kind reassuring way, rather than the way you mean it when you've got a persistent problem."

Will and Horace both smiled back, relieved to see Gilan acting more like himself.

"I don't know," Will said. "You are a bit of a problem if you think about it."

"And a persistent one at that," Horace added.

Gilan chuckled hoarsely and then coughed. "In this instance, I don't think I can disagree." Then he nodded at them, the motion silently and genuinely thanking them. "You both did well," he added more quietly as his eyes started to slip closed.

Both Horace and Will grinned at the scant words of praise. Gilan had never really been one to dole out false compliments after all.

A short while later found Horace and Will sharing a light supper while Gilan rested. Now that all the tension and worry of the day before had been dispelled, everything seemed much more peaceful and quiet. The day even seemed brighter, Will thought idly before glancing at his best friend when he cleared his throat.

"I've been thinking—about what you told me yesterday…" Horace began and then trailed, hesitating.

Will made a gesture for him to continue.

"I was thinking that, since you don't know when your birthday is, that you could just, well, share mine I suppose. I mean, we look about the same age, right?"

Horace was about to say more when he noticed that Will seemed frozen in surprise. He flushed slightly, worried he'd said the wrong thing. "If you don't want to that's—" he started quickly but broke off when Will smiled hugely at him, his brown eyes practically sparkling.

"You'd share your birthday with me?"

"Well, yeah—if you want."

"Of course I do! How many people get to share their birthday with their best friend?"

Horace smiled too then, putting an arm around Will's shoulders. "I mean, for all we know, this could be your actual birthday."

Will put his arm around Horace in turn and said more quietly, "Thanks, Horace."

Horace only nodded before an idea struck him. "Think we should tell Gilan?"

Will nodded enthusiastically.

 **~x~X~x~**

The morning of Horace's—and now Will's—birthday, both boys woke to find that Gilan had already made breakfast, but instead of the typical simple porridge, he'd topped each of their bowls with sweet cream and fresh berries. He also had laid out several sweet pastries, including a berry tart.

Will's eyes widened and he grinned at the treats, a grin that was mirrored by Horace.

"Happy birthday," Gilan told them, smiling too.

Both boys glanced excitedly at each other before reaching out to grab at the treats and muttering their thanks between mouthfuls.

"Where'd you get the pastries? Did you make them yourself? Where'd you get the ingredients and how come I didn't hear you cooking them?" Will asked, his torrent of questions only ceasing when he stuffed a spoonful of porridge and sweet cream into his mouth.

"I suppose I should count myself lucky that this time you chose a set of questions that I can answer all at once," Gilan said with a smile, shaking his head. "I went into the nearby town and bought them early this morning while you two were still asleep," he finished, sniffing slightly and then muffling a small cough in the crook of his arm.

Both Will and Horace looked a little worried at that. They had looked that way when Gilan had decided they get back on the road as soon as he was well enough to sit his horse again too. But, as far as Gilan was concerned, they needed to head west as soon as possible in order to get word out to his contact to warn the King—despite the fact that he really wasn't fully recovered yet.

It was also a good idea to put as much distance between them and the Outsiders as possible. This was especially true since they had kept the 'tithes'. Because that money was partially contingent to the forming of an alliance between Morgarath and the Outsiders, the last thing Gilan wanted was to let them have it. Giving the money to the villagers wasn't viable either: since it hadn't ever been theirs in the first place and since they would just dutifully give it back to the cult they idolized—whether directly or in the form of tithes.

No, if there had been one good thing to come of this mess, it was that their money problems had been solved, Gilan thought with a faint smile. He turned back to Horace however when the young man spoke hesitantly.

"Are you sure you should have done that?" Horace asked, stopping in his attempts to get the largest berry in his bowl onto his spoon. "I think you really should probably still be resting…" he said, then added uncertainly, "shouldn't he Will?"

Will nodded, his eyes showing concern.

Gilan merely brushed of their worry. "I'm doing fine. Besides, someone had to save us all from Horace's cooking, it was his turn today."

Will laughed at Horace's expression.

"I didn't burn breakfast more than five times." Horace protested indignantly

"Five times is five times too many," Will shot back.

Despite their laughter and their byplay, however, Gilan could see that neither boy seemed completely mollified by his words and so he tried again to reassure them.

"I'm actually feeling much better, honestly—and this," he gestured to the pastries, "is more important anyway. I'm not going to ruin your birthdays on account of my having a little cold." Before either Will or Horace could protest, about 'little cold' being the understatement of the year, and protest also that he wasn't completely well yet, he continued on, "I thought that, since it's your birthdays, you both can have the day off of training, and can pick what we do today."

Both boys brightened at the news and Will and Horace lapsed into an animated discussion of all the things that they could do on their day off. In the end, however, they decided to go swimming in the nearby springs Will had discovered the day before. It was something that would be enjoyable and relaxing for all of them.

Having decided, they all went back to eating their breakfast and joking around with each other when a thought struck Will. This was already turning out to be the best birthday he'd ever had (despite it being the only one he could really remember clearly) and he wanted to make certain that he returned the favor—something he couldn't do when he didn't know a certain fact.

"Gilan," he began, "when's your birthday?"

Gilan's smile faltered for a fleeting moment before he managed to bring it back.

"You know what? I haven't the faintest idea anymore."

Though he said it cheerily, it was noticeable to Will that he didn't meet either of their eyes as he spoke. A lie, Will was certain—especially since Gilan knew his exact age: he'd told Will and Horace that when they'd asked a couple of weeks ago. Horace, however, didn't seem to notice this.

"If you don't celebrate your birthday, then what do you celebrate instead?" Horace asked curiously.

"Another year that I've managed to stay alive," Gilan answered promptly, wholly honestly this time. "And when you think about it, it's about the same thing."

Will didn't quite agree with that, but he decided to let the matter drop.

Horace didn't seem to mind at all. "How do you celebrate that?" he asked, intrigued.

"With a drink, usually—of coffee," he added with a grin.

Horace nodded. "Then we should do that too."

Will took up a cup of coffee that Gilan had brewed for breakfast and raised it as he had seen the villagers of Bawtry do at festival celebrations.

"Here's to birthdays and all of us surviving another year!" he said, grinning broadly and the others did the same, echoing his words.

* * *

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading! I hope this chapter proved enjoyable. As usual, feedback is very, very, appreciated, so please leave a review if you've a mind to. Don't hesitate to let me know if you see any area I can improve in, have any questions or complaints etc. XD

Next chapter will probably be mostly about Halt, Crowley, and Evanlyn. I haven't picked a name for the next little arc yet... I think I might go with 'The Mountains of Rain and Night', but I'm not sure yet. I'm am pretty excited to write for it though.

 **Side Note:** So, a little note on the flashback; I am aware (in case anyone was wondering) that King Duncan specifically doesn't approve of dungeons and that the books expressly state that Castle Araluen does not have dungeons, but this is said rather like it's an oddity, comparatively speaking. Also, the books also consistently show that the Barons have a good deal freedom to govern their fiefs as they see fit (something that holds especially true in the world this AU has set up where King Duncan holds much less power than he did in the other time). If you have a Baron like Arald who holds similar views to the King it probably wouldn't be an issue, but not all Barons are like Arald. In fact, it's hinted that many are not. This is actually something I'll get more into later when it becomes even more relevant to the story. I also wanted to promise that neither Gilan nor his father (or even Baron Douglass XD) did anything really out of character to get into that situation (in case you were worried) I can and will explain... eventually...

I wish you all the very best until next time!


	17. Chapter 16

**A/N:** Hi everyone! I hope you are all doing well! Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter out. I just started a new job and it took me a while to get settled in it/get up to speed with everything. I'm going to try to make sure that I get the next chapter out a little faster though, scouts honor X). So this chapter is a little fast paced—especially the first 3/4ths—and by fast I mean it involves a lot of running XD I hope it proves an enjoyable read though! Thanks so much to all my readers! You guys are awesome!

 **Oceanera12:** Thanks for the review! And thank you so much for your kind words/compliments. It really is super encouraging to read, and I really appreciate it. As for Halt being the only one who remembers maybe it will, or maybe it won't, stay that way XD And the same goes for whether or not things will go back to normal. I can promise that the ending won't be really tragic though (I'm not often a fan of those). I'll reveal who the contact is this chapter so you don't have long to find out. Sorry, I took so long to update—I hope it wasn't quite too long yet. Thanks again!

 **Dragonslover98:** It's actually been pretty fun to write the developing relationship between the boys. X) So far, it's been a kind of one-sided in regards to trust and support so it was interesting to turn the tables a little. That question will be answered in this chapter—along with the answer as to what Evanlyn, Crowley, and Halt are up too. Thank you so much for the review, and the compliment; it made my day!

 **End3000:** Thank you so much for your review and what you said, it really means a lot to hear/read. I'm glad you think I've handled the characters and their interactions well—I'm always super worried about getting that right. I'm glad that you think the pacing and worldbuilding is good too! (It's something I've been working on/trying to improve). It's awesome you caught that: I have tried to leave little clues here and there like that XD Thanks again for the review!

 **Ranger-of-the-shadows:** Thanks so much! And your review made mine too!

 **Random Flyer:** Yeah, bribe money should always be taken away from people like Tennyson and Morgrath XD Fallout is indeed a possibility :) You are indeed getting very warm/close in your predictions. And yes, Baron Douglass is definitely the petty and vicious sort: I'm trying to make sure I'm keeping his personality as close to canon as I can, after all. Thanks so much for the encouragement and support, it means a lot!

 **jaymzNshed:** Awww thanks :3 I'm pretty excited to write about more of Gilan's backstory and why he wound up in prison (there is a good reason/explanation, I swear) XD. I should get to it fairly soon—just a few more chapters to go before the full story gets revealed. Thanks so much for the review! I really appreciate it!

 **TrustTheCloak:** I'm pretty excited to write about that part—and hope it will sufficiently satisfy your curiosity when I get there. (Only a few chapters away now). Yeah, poor Gilan didn't have a very good birthday… It was actually pretty cool to write a little bit of a role reversal in that chapter—it kind of helped all three of them grow, I think, and learn to rely on and trust each other more. The Horace sharing his birthday was pretty fun to write for too. Thanks so much for the review! It means a lot and totally made my day. I hope you have a lovely day too!

 **Gerbilfriend:** Aaawww, thanks :3 I think Horace and Will are epic too. (They are some of my most favorite characters). XD

 **Fawnfire:** Thanks so much for the reviews! I'm glad you like the premise. Yes, I agree that Halt was probably born to be a Ranger XD Thanks so much for the compliments! You made my day!

 **FramedCuriosity:** Hi! Thanks so much for the review and the compliments! I'm really glad you're enjoying it—that really makes all the hours I spent editing feel worthwhile! XD I really hope I can continue to pull it off well (I'll certainly try my best). I'm excited to take it further. Thanks again for the review! I really appreciate it.

* * *

 **Chapter 16: The Mountains of Rain and Night Part I**

 **~x~X~x~**

"How exactly are we going to get through that?"

Halt turned his head slightly to regard his onetime friend and then turned back to the sight in front of them.

"That is a very good question," he admitted grimly.

"You sound surprised," Crowley remarked, the smile evidenced in the tone of his voice.

"Not really. I'd noticed that you occasionally ask mildly intelligent questions." Halt's expression turned even more grim as he added. "I was more surprised about that." He pointed to the formidable looking palisade before them. "I don't remember it being there."

The pair had tracked Evanlyn all the way to Three Step Pass—the entrance to which had been blocked and fortified by that formidable looking wooden wall. Even from that distance, Halt could make out the forms of Wagrals patrolling atop it. It was obvious now that the princess was being taken to the Mountains of Rain and Night. That, in turn, meant that this was most likely where Morgarath was currently residing. Halt felt his right hand twitch unconsciously towards his quiver at the thought before he stopped himself.

The tracks they had been following had been fairly fresh: only hours old if Halt was to hazard a guess and Crowley agreed with his assessment. They both knew that, if the princess were ever to make it into Morgarath's clutches, the chances of rescuing her slimmed substantially. They needed to somehow overtake and intercept Evanlyn's kidnapper before he made it to Morgarath. Halt thought he had an idea on how to do that—but it would be cutting things awfully close.

"Which brings me back to the first question," Crowley spoke up again, breaking Halt from his thoughts. "How _do_ we get through that?"

"We don't," Halt said in answer, glancing towards the cliffs that he had scaled what seemed like a lifetime ago in an attempt to get information about the Wargals. "We go around," he pointed the rise of rocks.

"You mean up," Crowley said with a faint smile. "You do realize that those cliffs are supposed to be impassible," he said with a grin, despite the fact that he was already surveying the cliff-face, looking for suitable hand and footholds.

"Nowhere is really impassible," Halt quoted their old mentor, earning himself a slightly wistful smile and nod from Crowley, before moving to make certain that they had what they'd need for the climb: two sturdy ropes, spiked belaying prongs, and mallets for nailing the prongs into the cliff face.

This time, the climb was a little easier than Halt had originally remembered—though perhaps it was because he _did_ remember it. He already knew the best paths and footholds. It was also better to have someone reliable to climb beside him. This time around, he didn't bother sneaking a glance at the Wargals and their new fortifications by traveling down that first substantial ledge. Instead, the pair continued straight upwards. The only noticeable difference between the climb now and the one he'd taken all those years ago was the temperature. The weather was quite a bit cooler than before, and Halt's hands were soon red with cold. He was just glad that it wasn't quite cold enough to numb his fingers.

Side by side Halt and Crowley climbed and supported each other, side by side they reached the top, and side by side they pulled themselves over it. Once over, they froze, checking to make certain that the coast was clear. It was. They didn't take much time to catch their breath; they were in a race against time and knew it keenly. The top of the cliff led them to a run of jagged boulders that dotted the landscape along with stunted gangly trees.

Without even needing to speak, they headed simultaneously towards one of the largest boulders that they could see. Crowley scrambled up it while Halt spotted him from below. Once he reached the top, Crowley crouched low, staying in a cloud shadow as he crested the peak in a crawl, cowl pulled low over his face. He turned himself in the direction of the road that led up from Three-Step Pass. He didn't move his head, but Halt knew he was tracing that path from its start to where Morgarath's fortress would be.

Halt saw Crowley tense fractionally. The Ranger waited a beat for another scudding cloud shadow to pass over him before moving with it and climbing quickly back down. He dropped the last seven feet. He straightened and then faced Halt, his expression earnest, worried.

"If we're going to intercept them before they get to the fortress, we need to hurry." He picked up his pace and Halt followed after wordlessly. "Even if we jog the whole way it'll be a near thing."

"You saw them then?" Halt asked.

Crowley nodded grimly. "They're only a few kilometers from the open grounds that lead to the fortress."

Halt gritted his teeth—a near thing indeed.

 **~x~X~x~**

Evanlyn bounced uncomfortably atop the saddle. With nothing to hold on to—and no means to even do so when her hands were so tightly trussed—she could do nothing to brace against the horse's jolting strides. The man, who sat behind her, did nothing to help either. But, if she was being honest, his recent aloofness towards her was a great improvement to the blows and rough handling she faced whenever he did pay close attention to her, or whenever she displeased him in some way.

Evanlyn chewed the inside of her cheek, twisting her nearly numb hands in her lap in thought. She stopped that however when a particularly rough stride caused her to bite down too hard. Despite everything, she hadn't given up hope of finding some way out of this, some way to get free. And she hadn't once stopped trying either.

On her first day as Cordell's prisoner, she had spent the whole night stretching and sawing at the ropes that bound her to free herself. She had almost finished before he had awakened the following morning. She had tried to hide the evidence of her work from him as best she could, but hadn't accounted for the fact that he would be the type to physically check her bonds himself every morning. She winced at the memory. After that first attempt, he'd been especially watchful of her—so much so that the best she'd been able to do for the past few days was to keep her eyes open for any possible chance of escape. She felt a sinking feeling tighten in the pit of her stomach at the thought. She was quickly running out of time, she'd known that the moment they had been let through the palisade that had spanned Three Step Pass… and had only become more keenly aware of it the further up the pass they got. She knew that if they ever made it to Morgarath and his men, her chances of escaping would be slim to none. Her only chance was to make a move before that happened.

But, so far, no opportunity had presented itself—nor had she found any tool or means to help her either. She bit her lip as they rounded a bend in the road and the run of boulders they had been riding through broke off into open flatlands before a rise of cliffs, some higher mountain peaks, and the outline of a fortress. The setting sun cast the shadow of the fortress down across the open field before it, looking for all the world like a giant spectral hand reaching straight towards her.

She felt a cold sinking feeling grip her as she realized that time had officially run out. Her heart started pounding frantically in her chest. Ever since she'd been caught, she'd only ever focused on escape, trusting, blindly hoping that she would find a way—that an opportunity would present itself. Her breathing sped up slightly.

She was too late.

As soon as Morgarath's fortress came into sight, Cordell reined in his mount slightly to take it in. Evanlyn could feel the tension in the man's body lessen ever so slightly as the sight of his goal and destination came within reach. The panic in Evanlyn suddenly subsided into a rush of pure adrenalin as she realized that this was the opening that she needed. Or, rather, it was the closest thing to it, and quite possibly the only chance she was going to get. It didn't matter that it was wildly chancy.

As soon a she felt his muscles slacken and guard go down slightly, she flew into action. As she was sitting in front of him and was quite shorter that he was, she was in the perfect position to ram her head upwards as hard as she could into his jaw and throat. Bone smashed viscously into bone with a sickening crack. The force of her attack caused Evanlyn to see stars, but she ignored them in favor of the desperate wild elation she felt when she heard the man grunt and gurgle with pain and surprise as he fell away from her.

Without hesitation, she leaped off the saddle toward the right while he fell to the left. She landed awkwardly, stumbled and nearly fell without the use of her arms for balance and stability. Somehow, she managed to keep her feet as she took off towards the cover of boulders as fast as she could run, the sound of Cordell's pounding feet and angry shouts spurring her onwards.

She had only just the time to grimly reflect on how tired she was of being chased around by knights and wonder if it was possible for any of them to be any less original before she felt a rough hand on the back of her tunic. Her heart leaped to her throat with terror as she thrashed and pulled desperately away until she felt his grip break. Original or no, their ploy seemed always to work on her, and she hated it.

What she didn't consider was that perhaps she was selling herself short; the men she faced were often much bigger, stronger, and faster than she was. Yet, despite that, she had managed to survive, outsmart, escape, and elude many of them fairly successfully so far. She was far from helpless.

She doubled her pace, desperation lending her a speed she did not know she possessed. She was mere meters from the corner of the boulders before her captor's hand clamped down again on her sleeve. She felt her tunic rip and she stumbled, trying to regain her feet. She froze suddenly when something buzzed dangerously past her head. She heard Cordell scream in agony behind her. Turning, she saw him sprawled on the ground, an arrow lodged deeply in his shoulder. Panic mounted again until she heard someone shout her name.

"Evanlyn!"

She recognized the slightly accented voice at once.

"Halt!" she breathed, turning towards the sound.

The last she had seen of Halt he had been knocked down and surrounded by many enemy soldiers. She had been afraid that he… yet here he was. He had come for her. And he hadn't come alone she realized when she finally caught sight of him and another Ranger. They beckoned her towards the where they stood near a tall jagged boulder. A floodtide of relief filled her as she ran towards them. The relief only doubled when she was close enough to recognize the other Ranger as Crowley.

For a moment, it seemed as if they might all somehow make it to safety. She was a mere ten paces from them when everything went wrong.

A patrol had been heading down the road from the fortress and had spotted the small skirmish in the road up ahead. It was a mixed patrol, comprised of both humans and Wargals and was about thirty strong. As soon as the disturbance was spotted, the Wargals set off in immediate pursuit. To make matters worse, many of the humans moved off back towards the fortress to sound the alarm. Crowley only had time to slice off Evanlyn's bindings before all three of them were racing over the uneven ground of the boulder run.

"Keep your eyes on your footing! Don't look back!" Halt called to her and she nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She understood. If she looked back, she could easily trip on the uneven ground and, in this situation, even a minor sprain could be fatal for all of them.

Even as the sound of pursuit seemed to draw nearer, she refused to look back, just kept her eyes forward, carefully focused on placing her feet. But when another cacophony of sounds erupted to her left, she couldn't stop the reflex reaction to turn. Her mouth went dry as she saw another contingent of Wargals pouring in from a spit in the boulders to their left to join the ones that were already pursuing them from behind.

That small look cost her dearly. Her foot came down on a loose rock that rolled and took her ankle with it. She yelped at the sudden stinging pain and might have fallen but for Crowley's steadying grip—pulling her along beside him as they followed after Halt. The Hibernian led them towards a section of boulders that were clumped together in a way that made a sort of alcove. Evanlyn limped in beside Crowley and came to a stop.

Her ankle throbbed slightly, but she knew she had been lucky. She had only rolled it, rather than having sprained or twisted it. Though it hurt, it was an injury she could walk off. But she had little enough time to dwell on that as she saw Halt gesture to a deep fissure in between two boulders –a fissure that would be just large enough for the average sized man to fit in.

"We don't have much time. You and Evanlyn take cover in there and I'll draw them off. Once they're chasing after me, you'll have a clear path to the ropes."

Evanlyn paled even as her eyes widened as the meaning of his words hit her, and she wasn't the only one. Crowley stepped forward. His face was set in a frown, but his eyes were determined, stubborn.

"We can still all make it out of this together," he insisted.

Halt leveled a flat look at him, tilting his head towards the growing sound of pursuit. "You know there are too many of them for that—and even more are on the way. Even if we somehow made it to the cliffs before them, with so many, they would be able to stop us before we'd be able to make it down. Unless we have a distraction, none of us will make it out of here."

Crowley's shoulders slumped. He knew Halt was right, and he hated it. Nevertheless, he still made one last attempt.

"I could—" he started, but Halt cut him off before he could finish, already knowing what he would say.

"It has to be me," the Hibernian said more quietly. "You're the commandant, after all. Besides, I'll stand a better chance. I know the terrain better than you. I've been here before."

Crowly frowned at that piece of information but didn't really have time to dwell on it. Instead, he had to once again acknowledge that Halt was right. And besides, they didn't have any time left to debate or argue. Reluctantly, he nodded once, pushing Evanlyn towards the crack in the rocks, after placing a hand briefly on Halt's shoulder.

"Godspeed, Halt," he said as the Hibernian tore away.

Then he too crouched down into the fissure in front of the princess. He pulled his cloak tightly around himself and drew his hood low over his face. His knew that his stillness and Ranger cloak, when combined with the growing darkness, would render him almost invisible. He didn't have long to wait. Only seconds after he froze in place, the first of the Wargal party came into view. The rest thundered past and around their hiding spot in pursuit of Halt. Even though his field of vision was limited, Crowley counted at least forty of the beasts.

Crowley resisted the urge to close his eyes against the thought, knowing that even a slight movement could give his position away. All he could do was hope that Halt would stay one step ahead of their pursuers, and that he would manage to survive. Though they'd only known each other for a few days, Crowley already counted the grim man among his friends. He felt an easy camaraderie, as well as a strange inexplicable familiarity. They seemed to fit, and complement each other in a way that he had hadn't realized his was missing until the moment they met. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that they had both been apprenticed to Pritchard—and it was like having a piece of his past. Regardless the last thing Crowley wanted was to lose him—especially not like this. The Wargals and soldiers continued past in a steady stream. But very few of them glanced Crowley and the princess's way and, those that did, failed to see them. Crowley's cloak and Halt were doing their jobs all too well for that it seemed.

Once they had all passed by, Crowley waited until he was certain that the coast was clear before beckoning the princess to follow. Together they slipped silently through the boulder run, careful to avoid straggling Wargals until they reached the cliffs that he and Halt had scaled earlier that day.

The princess only gave one last worried and pained look back towards the direction where they had last seen Halt before grabbing the rope without any further prompting. Crowley was impressed but not really surprised that she knew the correct technique for getting down quickly and easily—and that she could keep pace with him as they descended down to be swallowed by the growing night. Once they reached the bottom, they headed off towards and then into the tree-line—towards where Crowley had secured Cropper. Crowley helped the princess onto the saddle in front of him. It was only when they were several kilometers away from the Mountains of Rain and Night and Crowley had deemed it safe enough to slow Cropper's fast pace, that the princess spoke.

"You'll go back for Halt, won't you?" she asked softly, her voice catching slightly on the words, and barely above a whisper.

The words and question seemed to stab at his heart. He fully intended to go back, for Halt's sake as well as for the sake of the mission he'd initially been tasked with. But first, he needed to get the princess to safety. He needed to take her somewhere where she would be protected, but not too far out of his way. Several thoughts and possibilities flitted through his mind before he brightened with an idea. He could take the princess to Highcliff Fief. It wasn't too terribly far out of the way and he knew that she'd be safe there. Lady Pauline, Baron Arald, Sir Rodney, and Sir David were there; they would protect her and could provide her safe passage to her father. He nodded to himself as he settled on a course of action. He only hoped that Halt could hold out long enough for him to make the trip to Highcliff and back. As they rode on through the night, the chill air seemed to still and warm for a brief moment before the first gentle flakes of an early snow began to drift steadily down.

 **~x~X~x~**

Halt turned sharply around the corner of a jutting rock outcropping, slowing to a limping stop. His leg throbbed painfully in time to his beating heart. His breath came in shallow gasps. Where before he had been purposefully leading the Wargals on, now he had given that up entirely in favor of escaping. He had been desperately trying to lose them for the past several minutes now.

The darkness of night was proving to be a mixed blessing. On the one hand, the increased shadows and darkness had aided his unseen movement and helped in hiding from the Wargals, but it had also made the treacherous ground more difficult to see. As a result, he'd fallen badly. He could feel blood dripping steadily down his shin where he'd cut it on a rock. The ankle below it was twisted pretty badly, he knew—though it wasn't quite bad enough to stop him…yet….

He tore a swath off his tunic and used it to tightly bind his shin over the badly torn trouser leg. The last thing he wanted in this situation was to leave a clear blood trail for the Wargals and Morgarth's men to find and follow.

What he needed was to find a way to escape this situation quickly because, if he fell again, he knew that he might not make it. He had managed to buy himself some time by weaving through a shallow canyon and stand of boulders—but it wouldn't last long. He wouldn't be able to keep running for long either. He tested his weight on his injured ankle and winced. He needed a place to hide and he thought he had an idea of where.

He closed his eyes briefly trying to conjure up a mental map of this place from the last time he'd been here. When he had followed the old hermit to his hidden home deep in the boulders and ravines. He thought he just might remember the way—but it wasn't a certainty. Still, he knew he had to risk it: it was quite possibly his only option. He quickly limped off in a specific direction and soon felt his uncertainty start to fade as the way began to look familiar—that was until he walked straight into a dead end.

He clenched his fists, feeling his breathing accelerate slightly as all sense of familiarity fled. This area was like a maze and the memory he was relying on was just too faded—fifteen years and another lifetime ago faded. He felt his mouth dry as the sound of pursuit grew more audible. The Wargals were catching up. Frustrated, he limped back the way he had come in an attempt to backtrack, find where he went wrong before it would be too late.

He was forced to walk several meters back before it finally started looking familiar again. The problem was that, when he again turned around, he was faced with three forks. He knew now that the left one was incorrect, but that still left a fifty-fifty chance between the other two. Time ticked steadily by as he debated, each second seeming to blare a warning that it was running out.

He tried to think back. He was fairly certain that it was the middle path, but wasn't positive. The ever-growing sounds of his hunters told him that he didn't have any more time left to debate with himself. Any moment his pursuers would round the bend. Deciding a hunch was better than nothing, he limped down the middle path.

For a while he was certain that he'd chosen wrong again… then things once again started looking familiar. He knew where he was—and knew too exactly where to find the hermit's hidden shelter. He wove his way through tumbled rocks and zigzagged between stunted trees and larger outcroppings; he even climbed over some lower ones. Finally, he made his way down a few tunnels. Then he reached it, a sheer face of granite that towered about forty meters ahead. On the surface it appeared to be a blank rock face. Halt knew better though. He made his way to a standing out section of the granite that looked like a buttress. He ducked quickly inside a narrow split in the wall that was invisible until a person was nearly upon it.

Halt emerged into the wide cavern that existed just behind the opening. He made his way nearer to the back and then slumped down. Moonlight filtered in diffusely through gaps in the cavern ceiling high overhead, allowing Halt enough light to see by. There were signs that someone had lived here, but they were old. Though Norman the hermit might once have lived here as he'd done in the other time, it was obvious it had not been for quite a while.

Halt took a moment to catch his breath and tightly wrap his sprained ankle. He held completely still and silent the few times he heard patrols moving close by his hidden alcove and he waited. As the night wore on, the strange chill that had been persistent deepened as a sudden wind picked up outside and grew. Halt pulled his cloak more tightly around him, glad that he was behind the shelter of the cave wall. Soon the moonlight was completely obscured by a thick cloud cover. Then came the patter of icy rain that turned quickly into hail. Suddenly, the hail quieted. Halt looked up at what he could see of the sky through the openings and was surprised to see downy snow drifting gently in through the openings. Halt had learned that the Mountains of Rain and Night had their own weather system due to their proximity to the sea and the winds that persisted. All the same, he was under the impression that it didn't snow all that often here—especially not so early in the season. But there was no denying the fact that it was.

Then he shrugged to himself. With how everything had been going for him so far, it might as well snow too. Halt moved back into one of the smaller adjoining caves and settled in for the night. He had a feeling that he was going to be waiting for quite a while.

 **~x~X~x~**

Will and Horace sat side by side near the fire making breakfast together. Horace sliced the tops off three apples and carefully carved out the cores before passing them to Will who filled them with a mixture of dried berries, crushed nuts, honey, and a little butter. Will then put the tops back on and proceeded to bury them in fire ash under the hot coals. By the time Gilan got back, the apples would be baked, soft, and hot—sort of like a fruit pie without the crust. Also, by the time Gilan got back, the potatoes they had buried earlier would be baked and soft too. Those potatoes they had made similarly to the apples but, instead of the honey and berries, they had stuffed the centers of those with an egg and salt pork mixture. The apples they'd have for breakfast and the potatoes they'd take with them to eat for lunch later while they were on the road.

Will's mouth watered slightly at the thought. It was easy to make camp-fare, true, but it was very delicious. They were both some of Will's favorite recipes to have learned from Gilan—which he might have improved on just a little here and there. Truth be told, Will actually enjoyed cooking and was getting very good at it. Will and Horace buried the last of them and then settled back to wait for them to cook and for Gilan to return.

The mercenary had left early that morning to take some sort of urgent message to the town they'd camped near the night before—something about the Outsiders. Gilan hadn't really taken the time to explain fully: which was something Will noticed Gilan did occasionally for random matters like this… and something he always did in regards to more personal matters. As Will thought on it, he realized that he really didn't know all that much about his friend in regards to his past: where he came from, who his family was, how he learned what he knew. He frowned slightly at the realization. Maybe that was just because Will hadn't known him terribly long. Maybe Horace knew.

"Has Gil ever talked about his past to you?" Will turned to ask Horace then, unable to stop himself once the thought was in his head.

"Only to tell me, in not so many words, that he doesn't want to talk about it," Horace said shrugging, then added, "why?"

"I'm just curious, is all… curious to know where he came from and where he learned all the stuff he knows."

Gilan had given them some answers and explanations, of course, but not as much as Will might have liked. It was all rather unsubstantial and vague: _"I spent a winter up north with some trappers. I've been hired many times by merchants wanting to make it safely across the King's land and parts of the contested lands; one of those groups had a cartographer. I worked at a tavern and inn for a few months, there was an amazing chef there. I helped a band of yeomen archers get rid of some beasts that were at large near their home, we hit it off well and I ended up wintering with them."_

"Well, I know his father was a knight. And I'm pretty sure that he trained as one too." Horace said, shaking Will from his thoughts.

"I've been thinking about that, and I'm pretty sure that he trained as a Ranger."

"Rangers don't use swords, and they can't joust," Horace pointed out.

"Well, knights don't use longbows and saxe knives, and they don't move around like he does," Will countered.

They were both silent for a moment as they considered what they had said.

"Well, he can't have been both…" Horace finally muttered, sounding confused.

"Unless…" Will began, and Horace looked up at him, interested to know what he thought. Will was a good thinker after all. "Unless he got amnesia; you've seen how he gets kind of funny sometimes when you ask him how he knows certain skills or sometimes things. It's like he knows but can't remember how or why. That sounds like a person who has amnesia to me," Will, who had never known a single person with amnesia in his life, said knowingly.

"Yes," Horace said, nodding thoughtfully, warming to the theme and the theory. "It makes sense and could explain a lot, actually. Since his father was a knight, he probably trained as that first. They could have gotten ambushed on a mission and he could have got hit on the head and left behind because the other knights thought he had died."

"Then when he wakes up, he can't remember anything," Will put in, "And then a Ranger finds him and decides to teach him."

"Then they get separated somehow; and, during whatever fight split them up, maybe he gets hit in the head again and gets double amnesia."

"And can't remember the Ranger, or learning the skills, but he still has…" Will searched for the word Gilan had used then found it, "muscle memory?"

Horace nodded, "and after he got hit the second time it must have made him remember a little bit about being a knight, and where he's originally from since he does…" then Horace trailed. "But, if that's true, then why wouldn't he just go back to being a knight?"

"Because he likes this life better?" Will suggested.

Horace thought about it then nodded again, remembering something Gilan had told him when they first met. "He thinks that he's more useful to the people of Araluen as he is now than he would be as an actual knight."

The two of them grinned at each other, certain that they had stumbled upon a good idea. Then Will frowned slightly.

"If only there was a way to know for sure."

"I don't see how we could unless we run into someone he knew or he has something that could give us a clue: like a knight's coat of arms or Ranger's symbol."

"He could," Will said thoughtfully, glancing towards Gilan's kit.

What _was_ inside it after all? He wondered. Gilan might always have been fairly open as a person, but he was not so very open with his personal items. They were allowed into his medical pack and his supply of healing herbs. They could get into the cook-stuff: their supply of food, Gilan's frying pan, cook pot, and spit…but never into his personal kit.

Will really had no idea what all Gilan had in his personal belongings. And, as soon as the thought entered his head, he couldn't seem to get it out. What was in Gilan's bag? The curiosity started eating him alive and he shifted uncomfortably. He tried and failed to distract himself. Soon it got so that he could stand it no longer. After glancing around himself, he began creeping forward.

"Will," Horace hissed, "what are you doing?"

"I just have to know what's inside it," Will said, reaching for the leather satchel.

"But, Will," Horace protested, "That's Gilan's! You can't just snoop around in it."

"Aren't you just the least bit curious to know what's inside?" Will asked, turning to face him. "There could be something really interesting or clues even. Don't you want to know?"

"No," Horace said forcefully, "I am not going to—" whatever he was about to say was cut short as Will opened the leather satchel and made a slight humming sound as he saw what was inside.

"What is it?" Horace asked, moving quickly behind Will and looking over his shoulder to try and catch a glimpse.

There were many things inside, they saw. A fletching jig, some and steel broadheads, and other things for making arrows. There was a whetstone and some oil for maintaining blades. There was a small pair of scissors, a comb, and the razor knife that Gilan used to shave, as well as very small and flat piece of metal that had been buffed and polished so that it could be used as a passable mirror. There was also the prong of a grapnel, and various other useful odds and ends—like sewing and leather needles and an awl—all were well kempt and neatly organized.

There were also two small drawstring bags. Inside the first was money. In the last lay two small bars of lemongrass and herb smelling soap. But none of this told them anything they didn't already know about Gilan. So they put it all aside. Something else caught Will's eye then: two small, thin, and unprofessionally hand-bound books. Will drew these out to look at them. They were slightly rough and seemed to have been made in haste. But, despite that, it was obvious they had been made with care.

Will opened and thumbed through the pages of the first to see that it was a healer's book. It listed useful herbs and where to find them, as well as detailing basic first aid and treatment for various common ailments and injuries. At the very front, was a short inscription written in the same handwriting as the pages.

" _Take care of yourself, boy. Try to stay safe_ ," Horace read aloud, then added, "wonder who wrote it?"

"A healer, obviously," Will said and Horace glared at him.

"Well, I know that," he said with extreme patience. "What I meant was _who_ was the healer to Gilan?"

"Somebody who cared about him, I think; it would have taken lots of work to make it."

Horace nodded, knowing he was probably right. "What about the other book?"

Will opened that one and saw that it was a little cookbook for camp fare, and it was written in a different hand than the healer's book. But, unlike the other, it bore no inscription. The two boys glanced at each other as they placed the books aside. They didn't know much more than they did before.

Then they peered inside the satchel again. There were several neat, yet small enough to be light, bundles of paper: neatly drawn and folded charts, warrants, bounty posters, and letters—most of the later, Will could tell by the signatures at the bottom, were from different people. There were, however, several letters from the same person, a certain Lady Pauline.

"Who is she, I wonder?" it was Will's turn to ask.

"A lover?" Horace suggested, but as Will scanned the contents of the top sheet he shook his head.

"It doesn't really sound that way; it sounds more like—"

"Did you find what you were looking for?" a voice asked cheerfully from directly behind them.

Both boys nearly jumped out of their skin in shock. They leaped to their feet, whirling around to see none other than Gilan standing directly behind them. It really was uncanny how he could move like that; they both found themselves thinking uselessly. The woodsman's arms were crossed as his gaze swept over his scattered belongings and the letters in Will's hands. The faint smile on his face decidedly did not reach his eyes.

"I..I-I.."Horace started to stutter, pale-faced and standing at attention.

Will stepped forward then. It had been his idea, not Horace's, to snoop, after all.

"It was my fault. I was curious, and well… I was the one who decided to look and—"

"I didn't have to look," Horace said then, stepping forward in turn. He was unwilling to let Will take all the blame. "I'm sorry, Gilan," Horace said and Will nodded.

Gilan blinked, but the dangerous look in his eyes didn't really diminish any, and any trace of a smile was now gone from his face.

"You could have asked," he said then.

Will shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, feeling more than guilty. Curiosity was well and good, so long as it didn't hurt anybody, he realized then. Gilan was an open and friendly person, true, but he was also, conversely, a fairly private one. Will respected and admired him, he was a friend and a good one—the closest thing he had to an older brother. Will didn't like the thought that he had betrayed his trust, angered, or hurt him. He swallowed and looked down, regretting his actions.

"I was afraid you'd say no," he said in a very small voice.

"You're right there. I might have said no—and it would've been my right, wouldn't it have?" Gilan asked quietly.

"Yes," Will said, flushing, "I'm really sorry."

"Very sorry," Horace added, despondently but earnestly.

"It won't happen again," Will put in and Horace nodded.

Gilan met both of their gazes levelly for a long moment and then nodded once as he recognized the sincerity behind both boys' apologies. That small spark of anger drained from his eyes.

"You can put all that back exactly the way you found it," he said then, steel still lingering ever so faintly in his voice. Both boys nodded, moving instantly to do as he asked, still shamefaced, but relieved that Gilan had accepted their apology and that their little slip up had not caused any permanent bad feelings between them.

Gilan, meanwhile, set himself down to begin the arduous process of plucking and cleaning the grouse he had shot for their dinner on the way back from the town before the meat spoiled. He couldn't really fault the pair for their curiosity, he realized then. He knew that he probably would have been too in their place—all the same… Although he didn't much care for anyone rifling through his personal belongings, it wasn't exactly the fact that they'd done it that was the problem—not really. He winced. He didn't know which would be worse: what they might find, or what they might think... He shook his head, trying to shake the thoughts away with it. Snorting softly, he turned his attention to tending the grouse. He had not even truly begun before Horace moved forwards, having finished putting Gilan's things back with Will.

"I'll do that for you," he offered.

"And I'll cook tonight," Will said from where he was already removing their breakfast and lunch from the fire.

Gilan looked at the pair of them, a genuine smile growing on his lips as he recognized the peace offering.

"Alight," he said, handing Horace the bird. And, having nothing immediate left that he needed to do, he moved a few paces to the side, resting the small of his back against a convenient log and pillowing his hands behind his head, looking altogether too comfortable and contented.

"You know, this is nice," he said, grinning widely. "The two of you should apologize to me more often."

Both Will and Horace made simultaneous rude faces at him for that remark. Gilan chuckled before he grew more serious as he remembered something important.

"Before you get to it, I have something I need to speak with you both about." He sat up a little straighter and pulled a paper from his jerkin front. He had actually meant to tell them as soon as he'd gotten back but had been sidetracked when he'd seen all his things strewn about.

Will and Horace had, by then, moved closer to sit in front of him.

"Is that a bounty notice?" Will asked. "I thought we didn't need to take any more contracts for the winter?"

"In a way yes, and also yes," Gilan said in answer. Then, noticing Will's puzzlement, he continued, "You remember that Lady Pauline you read about just a moment ago when you went rifling through my letters?"

Will and Horace flushed slightly but nodded.

"She's a contact of mine: a Courier, or member of the Diplomatic Corps—someone fairly close to the King."

"Is she the one you delivered the message to?"

Gilan nodded.

"How did you meet?"

"That's not important," Gilan shrugged. "What is important is that she occasionally hires me for jobs—ones that have more to do with the kingdom itself than typical village contracts."

"I take it they're more dangerous then, aren't they?" Will asked and Gilan nodded.

"Usually, yes. And it's the case for this one too. Morgarath is planning an attack, and the King needed to know more, so he sent one of his Rangers into Morgarath's lands to get the information. Lady Pauline wants to hire me to try and back him up—or get that intelligence myself for her if worse comes to worst."

He paused for a moment meeting the boys' earnest gazes before continuing. "It's true we don't need it for the money—although contracts from this contact of mine are usually pretty profitable. I know we are already set for the winter. But, with what we just learned about the Outsiders and everything else, it needs to be done for the sake of the kingdom. If Morgarath were ever to win the war… well, it wouldn't be good for business for us to say the least," he trailed but didn't need to finish.

"There's also something else," Gilan added after a slight pause. "I'm pretty sure that the Ranger that was sent into Morgarath's lands was Crowley—that's where he was heading when we ran into him."

"The one with the scar that we help to fight off bandits with?" Will asked and Gilan nodded.

"Even though we're technically even now, it doesn't change the fact that he saved my life once. He's a good man and, I'd like to think, a friend. I'd like to help him if I can. I've decided that I'm going—but this is probably going to be more dangerous than anything we've done so far so I'm leaving the choice coming with up to you. Mind you, you'd mostly be lying low near the border and guarding our camp if you came—and that's dangerous enough as it is."

He saw Will and Horace exchange glances that recognized a mutual sense of nervousness and worry, but also determination.

"We're coming with you."

* * *

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading! Leave a review if you've a mind to; they feed the muse and help me learn and improve (also they make me happy XD). Also, don't hesitate to let me know if you have suggestions, questions, or feel that I could improve somewhere.

So, pretty soon everyone is going to start coming together for good: probably within the next few chapters—which is going to be fun to write for. Also, the next few chapters should bring about the rise of/focus on the main and final conflict (which many of my mini-conflicts have been hinting at or building up). We are probably in the last third or quarter of the tale (depending on how long it takes to write out certain aspects of the outline) in case anyone was wondering. XD

I wish you all the best until next time!


	18. Chapter 17

**A/N:** Hello everyone! I'm finally back *sheepish grin*. Again I must apologize for the delay, I'd honestly hoped that I'd have this chapter out much faster. I actually had half of it already written by the time I had posted the previous chapter. Unfortunately for me, life and work conspired simultaneously to forcibly take my head out of the clouds and then proceeded to devour all my writing time. So sorry again. I hope the content of this chapter makes up a little for the wait: this one is one of the ones I've been most looking forward to/excited about writing. It actually has an alternate title "Troll Sled" In honor of the song that gave me the idea/inspiration for it. If you'd like to take a look (or rather a listen) the song is called Troll Sled by Epic North. (It's an odd name granted, but it'll make sense when you get to the part of the tale in question). If anyone is curious or interested, I can list the playlist of songs that inspired this whole book. They are all instrumental only songs, just so you know and in case that is not your cup of tea (or coffee): Hiraeth by Jo Blankenburg, Winterstorm by IMAscore, Castle of Ice by IMAscore, Persecution by Audiomachine, Taking the Helm by Thomas Bergerson, Troll Sled by Epic North, Blood Moon by End of Silence, The Forest of Wolves by Peter Crowley, and The Hero Within by James Paget. Anyhow, thanks so much for reading and I really hope this chapter is as exciting and fun to read as it was to write XD

 **Guest 5/11** : Thank you so much for your kind words! It was very encouraging to read! I do apologize for the delay. Life kind of ate me for a while. But I hope to try an keep a more consistent updating schedule. Hopefully, I'll be able to go back to updating once a month now that things have calmed down a little. Thanks again!

 **Fawnfire:** Thanks for the review, and the compliment! It means a lot. I'm really glad you think it's all working together well to make an interesting story. That means a lot to hear! I'm always worried about getting it right/making a decent story. Thanks again, I really appreciate it XD

 **Guest 4/13:** Thank you so much for the kind words and the review. It was so very encouraging to read! I do plan to keep going with this story until I finish it, so don't worry! Thanks again!

 **Guest 4/11** : Thanks so much for the review and the compliment! I really appreciate it. I hope I didn't make you wait too long.

 **TrustTheCloak:** Thanks so much for the compliment, it means a lot. Yup Everyone is getting back together soon. Also, it's a good guess. There will be a little bit of the reunion this chapter actually. No need to apologize! Thanks so very much for the review—It made my day to read! I wish you the best!

 **ArcedArrow:** Thanks so much for the encouragement and compliment! I really appreciated it! As for your question: yes, I am still planning to write Messenger Hawks and Hides—both of which are currently resting within my half-finished story file. I've been a little busy and run down with school and work so I haven't gotten the chance to write as much as I'd like. There are way too many stories in the half-finished file, actually *sheepish grin*. Hopefully, I'll get the time and inspiration to finish them and all the others too.

 **Gerbilfriend** : Yup, getting the gang back together! I'm looking forward to writing it XD Thanks so much for the review! I really appreciate it!

 **Lilly-daughter of Radolso** : Awwww :3 Thanks so much. You have no idea how encouraging it was to read your review! There is definitely going to be a Halt and Gilan reunion in this chapter, so the moment you've been waiting for is here actually. XD That's totally alright, I really appreciate you taking the time to leave a review at all, it doesn't matter to me if it's late. I totally get not being able to outwardly fangirl for fear of getting weird looks. XD It stinks, doesn't it?

 **Ranger-of-the-shadows:** Thanks so much for the compliment and the review! I'm so glad the update made you happy, that's what I want the most out of my writing—so that's great to hear. Thanks again!

 **Random Flyer:** Thanks so much! You have great predictions, as usual, and you'll probably see a few of them happen this chapter. It is indeed going to be very fun when Halt meets up with Gilan and finds out about Will and Horace XD. I really appreciate the encouragement and advice! Thanks again!

 **jaymzNshed** : Thanks so much for the review! I hope this chapter proves to be as exciting as you hoped!

* * *

 **Chapter 17: The Mountains of Rain and Night Part II**

 **(Troll Sled)**

 **~x~X~x~**

Morgarath sat astride his white charger, ignoring the tumbling snowflakes in favor of surveying the darkened landscape around him. Several of his higher ranking lieutenants stood beside him, trying, as he was, to see through the night shadows and the curtain of snowfall.

As soon as the runner had reported that a Wargal and human patrol were trying to stop what appeared to be two Rangers, he had set out in immediate pursuit. Apparently, the two men were trying to flee the mountains with none other than the crown princess: who one of his men had apparently found and had been trying to deliver to him. As he had been out on the plains before his fortress drilling his Wargals at the time he received the news, it hadn't taken much to join in the pursuit.

But they had lost them—or rather _him_ , Morgarath amended. The two Rangers, if there had indeed been two, had obviously spit up sometime during the chase because Morgarath and his men had only ever caught sight of one. Likely this one had acted as a distraction to allow the other and the princess to escape, Morgarath thought, cursing those grey-cloaked meddlers—and not for the first time. He felt a steady rage welling up within him. Not only had the ultimate prize of the princess slipped through his grasp, but both Rangers had managed to escape with their lives as well. Had he the princess, his leverage over Duncan would have been unassailable… but he hadn't the princess. And it seemed that now he never would. True, the success of his ultimate plan had never hinged on this, but it was still a loss, and a biting one.

His grip tightened reflexively around the reins, the motion made jerky and sharp with his barely controlled fury. It caused his horse to curvet as it felt the tug and his master's tension and anger. As Morgarath tried to bring his mount back under control, he caught sight of something flapping in the wind amidst a flurry of skittering snowflakes. It was near to the ground and dark against the snowy backdrop. He dismounted and bent to take a closer look. It was a shred of cloth that was stuck to a low rock by a fairly large smear of blood that had frozen it in place. Morgarath called impatiently for one of his men to come forward with his torch so he could see more clearly.

The cloth was a different make, color, and texture than the uniforms of his men. Also, this was where he and his men had stopped their pursuit after having lost the Ranger. Not just because they had lost sight of the man, but also because the horsemen in their party couldn't risk riding over such uneven ground in such poor light. Therefore, the chances were more than good that this scrap of cloth belonged to the Ranger. This, in turn, meant that the man had injured himself, and fairly badly too. Morgarath smiled cruelly at the thought, a smile that only grew as he retrieved the scrap of bloodied cloth.

"Teezal!" he called and watched as the man approached quickly, nearly stumbling over the uneven ground in his haste. Morgarath waited impatiently for him to regain his balance, realizing at the same time that that was very likely how the Ranger had had his little accident: stumbling over loose boulders.

"Yes, my Lord?" Teezal asked breathlessly.

"I want you to send a message back to our outpost Brunswick," he said coolly.

Teezal nodded emphatically, nervously. "It will be done my lord…" he hesitated for a moment, wringing his hands, as the silence between them extended just too long to be comfortable, before venturing to ask. "What message would you like me to convey?"

"Lord Hadley is based there, is he not?" Morgarath asked sibilantly, and Teezal nodded. "And he trains tracking hounds and war dogs, does he not?" Morgarath asked.

"You want me to request he send some of both?" Teezal ventured.

"No, I wanted you to ask him to send me tea," Morgarath sneered sarcastically, his temper rising. He flicked the bloodied scrap of cloth under his lieutenant's nose for emphasis.

Teezal cringed, bowing, cowed. "Apologies, my Lord. I'll send for the dogs right away."

However, the man made no move to do so immediately. Instead, he stayed put where he was, hesitating again. Morgarath felt his temper and impatience flaring.

"Well?" he asked dangerously, though he already knew what the man was going to ask. In truth, he welcomed the question because it afforded him the opportunity to show off just how he was able to outsmart and outthink the enemy as well as his own men. It would only help to cement his power and standing.

Teezal flinched and floundered for words before he finally asked.

"But, my Lord, it will take a few days for the dogs to arrive. Won't the Ranger have already found a way off the mountain by then?"

"The Ranger was obviously injured, and who knows how badly. More than likely he has taken shelter somewhere and is lying low. And, if he is still here by the time the dogs arrive, then we will find him." He paused and then added, "And one more thing."

"Yes my lord?"

"Double the patrol. If he's gone to ground, we'll flush him out one way or the other." With that he remounted his horse and set off carefully back through the snow to his fortress, taking the bloodied cloth with him. A Ranger, though no substitute for the crown princess, was indeed a decent prize—especially if he could get him to talk. Even if he couldn't, he'd at least be able to extract some pleasurable compensation for his troubles in the form of revenge. And, in the end, there would be one less meddling Ranger to contend with when he'd eventually finished with him.

 **~x~X~x~**

Halt moved stealthily through the night shadows. He went carefully, ensuring that he put his feet into footprints and paths that were already worn into the snow by the foot traffic of patrols. Even still, the snow crunched somewhat underfoot and his passage was nowhere near as silent as he would have preferred.

It had been five days since Halt had first taken shelter in Norman the hermit's abandoned cave. And, so far, Morgarath's men had not once stopped patrolling everywhere in search of him. The snow itself had also caused another set of problems to keep him lying low. When it had first fallen, it had been a good two-thirds of a meter deep, maybe even more in some places. Aside from the fact that it would have left a completely obvious trail if he'd left his shelter, there was the additional problem of moving through it with any sort of ease. He just wasn't equipped for it. So he had spent those five days waiting.

He'd known that his odds of making out only increased in this situation if he remained patient. _Don't rush into things_ ; it had been one of his rules as a mercenary and now he realized that it had been a mantra he'd learned as a Ranger—as many of his personal rules had turned out to be. This one he remembered saying to his first apprentice on more than one occaision. He felt the now familiar ache in his heart grow at the thought and briefly toyed with the idea of hunting down Morgarath while the traitor Baron was still here—instead of simply escaping. One thing he knew for certain was that if he ever was so lucky to be presented with such an opportunity, he was going to take it.

Regardless, the one good thing about the numerous patrols was that they had steadily made trails through the snow. He'd seen the Wargals with their heavily clawed and muscular bodies making their way through the stuff with a speed and ease he could never hope to match. He glanced down at his left ankle. It had healed fairly well over the few days he'd been in hiding and waiting, but not completely. And it certainly wasn't helping him move through the snow with anything close to ease or speed either—despite the worn trails.

His progress had been slow, and he well knew it. To further the matter, it had been made all the slower by having to constantly dodge and hide from patrols. Already he could see the faint brightening at the horizon that hinted of the rosining sun. Soon it would be up and his chances of sneaking off the mountain would diminish substantially—especially with the number of patrols around.

He was going to have to find someplace to lay low throughout the day and then move out again when the sun set. He wasn't happy about the delay that this would cause, but he knew there was nothing for it.

As soon as the sun started glimmering over the horizon, Halt began looking for suitable cover in earnest—and, more importantly, he looked for a place where he could avoid, hide, or cover any tracks he might make when he broke off from the worn paths of the patrol trails.

The sun was halfway above the horizon before he found a spot. The wind had blown most the snow off the tops of some smaller boulders near the worn trail. Halt was able to leap to the top of the first one and then to the next three without touching the pristine snow. When he was about five boulders in and away from the path, he ran out of rocks. He leaped out from the top of the last boulder as far as he could into the snow. He winced slightly as his landing jarred his ankle, but he knew that he'd managed to get far enough out from the road not to have left any noticeable trail. From there he was able to walk almost normally, aside from the times he had to make his way through deeper drifts, to a shadowed cleft in between two boulders. Halt moved into their shade and then settled down to wait.

Having lived as both a Ranger and a mercenary, he was used to waiting, holding completely still for hours on end. However, merely being accustomed to it didn't stop his muscles stiffening with the cold nor stop the water from the snow, melted by his body heat, from seeping into his clothes and his boots. And it didn't make the whole ordeal any more pleasant.

Halt was still waiting when he felt a weird feather light whispering intrusion into his mind—as if someone had dragged a feather soft touch across his thoughts. He'd felt it before when he'd been near Wargals in that other time, and a few times while he'd been in hiding. However, this time, the fleeting intrusion seemed to last longer than usual. As it grew in strength, he became aware of the sounds chanting and heavy footfalls that signaled the passage of Wargals. By the sound and feeling, he suspected this party was much larger than any of the small patrols he'd seen during his time in hiding. Even as he held still, the intrusion seemed to grow and even seemed to hold a picture—something that looked fairly similar to a Ranger. At first, he'd thought he'd merely imagined it but, when it kept repeating, he knew it hadn't been him. He knew that Morgarath communicated and directed the Wargals with his mind, and supposed that those images were somehow part of this mental communication.

It was in that way that he was fairly certain that they had some vague idea that he was a Ranger and that they were still actively hunting him. Then the faint intrusion was gone as the Wargals crossed out of range.

It wasn't long after that when he became aware of the faint sound of voices, clanking armor, weapons, and other similar camp sounds carried very faintly to his ears on the wind. Halt was an experienced campaigner and surveyor and so the more he listened, the more he could tell that it was most likely made by a very large party—likely that was where that large group of Wargals had been heading.

As soon as he realized this, he debated silently with himself for a moment against whether or not it would be worth the risk to take a closer look. With a camp that size, there was bound to be a chance to uncover or overhear potentially vital information and information was something they needed if he was ever going to find a way to fix this, find a way to end the war. Then he shrugged to himself. He was already in this deep, he might as well go all the way.

The place where the large party had made camp was situated on the edge of a steep slope and surrounded by boulders and a line of scrubby stunted trees. Approaching unnoticed had been easy, but learning anything had not been. Dressed as he was, and with the whole mountain still on high alert for him, Halt knew he couldn't pretend to belong and interpose himself in the camp. Nor could he sneak in unnoticed in broad daylight.

He had been forced to resort to staying near the edge and trying to pick up useful snippets of conversation from the few human commanders and soldiers. There had been precious few instances of that. He had gotten to this area around noon and it was now reaching evening, and had only heard one piece of conversation that could be useful; unfortunately, his distant position had made it fragmented and incomplete. He had been crouching in the shadows near the south side of the encampment, trying to stay downwind of the Wargals, when he'd heard the snatches of the conversation carried by the breeze.

 _"Still say… wasting time hunting the Ranger… Obviously long gone…" He heard one soldier tell another. "What about the… on Highcliff fief. We were supposed to be joining the troops there… even without… support."_

To which the other had said something about " _Lord Morgarath_ " and still having " _three weeks_ " before… before something. The only other words he could make out were something about a " _watchtower_ " and " _fen lands_ ". He couldn't catch anything else.

Even now he tried to piece together what the two soldiers had been talking about. It sounded to him as if Morgarath had found some opening to attack Highcliff fief, an attack that was scheduled, if he'd heard right, to happen in three weeks time. But he wasn't certain. He watched the camp from under the shadow of his cowl, thinking.

He needed to get off this mountain and away from Morgarath's men. The risks only grew the longer he stayed. But, if what he guessed about the conversation he had overheard was true, then he needed to find out more or get confirmation. If he waited the few hours it would take for night to fall, he stood a better chance of trying to get closer to the camp to find out more.

He was still thinking about it when he heard the low eerie moan of a howl coming from behind him. His blood froze in his veins. He knew that sound—knew what it meant. He had heard it before. The sound came again, this time accompanied by furious barking. Halt whirled, drawing his bow in the same motion just as he caught sight of three war dogs weaving through the boulders and scrubby trees, heading straight for him. In the span of a breath, Halt had drawn knocked and fired. Three arrows were on their way before the first found its mark in the leading dog. The second dog fell shortly after the first. His third arrow missed as the dog swerved around a boulder. The beast was only meters away from Halt by the time he again had a clear shot. The dog fell as Halt shot again, coming to rest centimeters away from his feet.

The noise of the dogs had attracted the attention of the many Wargals and few humans in the nearby camp; attention that only increased when the dog's handlers started shouting, raising the alarm. Halt hadn't been able to shoot fast enough to silence all of those human handlers in time. The air filled with the shouts of Wargals and men as they caught sight of the prey that they had been hunting for days. The commanders were already trying to rally the men in support of the advanced party that had been traveling with the war dog's handlers. But Halt didn't have time to focus on that for that advanced party was already upon him. Heart pounding, Halt found himself backing out into the middle of the clearing, facing off against about twenty Wargals.

Halt shot grimly into the fray, intent on catching anyone who got too close, knowing all the while that it wouldn't be long until they closed the distance between them, and he was in a bad position. He loosed four more arrows and four more Wargals fell. He then pivoted ninety more degrees and managed to drop three more Wargals before they got too close for him to use his bow effectively any longer. He just managed to sling it across his back and draw his two knives when the first Wargal reached him.

The rest, after recovering from the deadly volley, showed only a momentary hesitation before they too joined the fray. And now Halt was in trouble. He grimly faced them as they began to encircle him, but he wasn't feeling at all overly optimistic at the prospect of facing the remaining twelve with nothing but his two knives.

His mind was working overtime to try and figure a way out of this one, but he realized that the time for doing that had been before he had wound up in this position—opportunities that he had missed. Then he shrugged to himself. It looked as if his only option now was to fight. He glanced at the half circle of Wargals advancing on him and then behind him towards the bluff at his back. He moved then, catching the blade of the first Wargal with his crossed knives then driving forwards into the creature.

As it fell, he stepped past it, breaking through the Wargals' line to get behind them. He moved to dodge the swipe of another one before sending it to the ground with a lightning reply from his saxe. He knew the only way for him to win this fight would be to keep moving and not to let them surround him. He downed another one but the rest were getting wise to his tactics now.

Soon he found himself defending two fronts as two attacked him simultaneously from either side. It was then that he noticed something else that made him swear under his breath. The Wargals and men of the camp had finally gathered themselves and were streaming down from the mountain above him. He could also see one of Morgarath's human captains among them as well, driving them forward.

He needed to break free and get away before those re-enforcements made it down to the long flat ledge that he was currently fighting on in order to stand a chance. But he couldn't break free from the press around him.

The ugly sinking feeling only grew stronger. He couldn't afford to die here. He was the only one who knew what was wrong, what had happened. He was the only one with the knowledge to be able to fix this all before it was too late.

Suddenly, a hooded figure broke through the cover of the scant trees to his left. In his hands was a longbow and he shot with blinding speed as he moved forwards. Five Wargals fell—three dead and two wounded. That included the one that had been attacking Halt form the left and one that had been trying to sneak up on him from behind.

Halt took care of the one on the right. The newcomer got off one more shot before he reached the press of warriors. He slung his bow over his shoulder with one hand and unsheathed a sword with the other in a single fluid movement. He drove forwards into the Wargals. The speed and power of his slashing attacks cut through the creatures' defenses like a knife through butter. Wargals fell before him or reeled away, wounded. It gave Halt the distraction and pause he needed to regain the momentum of the fight he had been losing.

He moved to fight his way towards the newcomer in the hooded surcoat and leather armor. All the while, he felt an odd twisting feeling growing in his chest. The man's shape, bearing, and the way that he moved was so familiar. Halt instantly knew him… not from this time, but from the one he had left behind. For a moment he couldn't bring himself to believe it. He had been told that his first apprentice was dead—yet here he was, alive.

"Gilan," he whispered, that twisted feeling turning into an ache of joy, longing, and an odd sense of apprehension as he caught another glimpse of his former apprentice. Soon they were fighting side by side. And though they had never so much as set eyes on each other before in this time, Halt felt an odd sense of familiarity. They fought almost as fluidly together as they had done in that other time.

Under their combined attack, the four remaining Wargals backed away and stood warily out of sword and knife reach. They were suddenly not so very eager to renew the attack on these strange two men who had caused them such casualties. This created a sudden lull in the fighting.

"I hope this isn't a habit of yours," Gilan turned slightly towards Halt, a cheery and heart-achingly familiar grin on his face, "walking straight into Wargal encampments."

"Trying to walk away from them would be a better way to put it," Halt replied gruffly.

Gilan's smile widened at that before it froze; he seemed almost to frown slightly at the sound of Halt's voice, looking momentary startled before he shrugged it off. Halt's moment of hope died away as he realized that there was no recognition. But he didn't have time for such thoughts now, he knew.

"See if you can start edging towards the left," Halt said, then. "If we can make it to the tree and boulder line before those reinforcements get here, we might stand a chance of getting away then. It could draw our four furry friends out to attack us."

"My thoughts exactly." Gilan nodded.

During this conversation, Gilan's sword had been up and pointed unwaveringly at the remaining Wargals. Together they began inching towards the trees. The Wargals, sensing their intentions, threw caution to the wind, just as Halt had predicted, and rushed them. Halt and Gilan moved to intercept them. Soon those last four were dead.

Halt looked up and then swore. They had been moments too slow. The first part of the Wargal reinforcements had arrived, cutting them off from the tree line and higher ground as they fanned out, creating an even more menacing half-circle than the previous one. And it grew ever more numerous as the beasts kept pouring down the slopes.

It was starting to look like their only option would be to surrender. At the same time, Halt knew that surrendering to Morgarath would probably lead them into a fate worse than death. He could tell by the set to Gilan's jaw that he was obviously thinking along the same lines. But before Halt could say anything, the human commander of the Wargals spoke.

"I think the best thing, _foresters_ ," he sneered, "would be for you to lay down your arms and surrender." He stepped forward a pace. "You see, when a larger force gets in position around a smaller one, it means that the smaller force is, what we like to call, surrounded. This army is far too big for two to fight alone. No one can succeed against the might of Lord Morgarath."

Gilan and Halt glanced at each other, each recognizing the other's refusal to surrender. Gilan turned towards the man then.

"Most everyone knows that Wargals molt seasonally. But what most people don't know is why." He picked a clump of Wargal fur off of his leather armor and flicked it idly away. "It's the heavy grease content. It clogs their pores and makes them shed."

Silence greeted his odd announcement. Halt stared at his onetime apprentice with an eyebrow raised. Gilan, seeming to notice the reaction for the first time, looked up, first at Halt and then at Morgarath's commander. The man was also staring at Gilan oddly.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Gilan said, his smile turning sharp, "I thought we were all taking turns announcing worthless information."

Halt's raised eyebrow rose further, though this time he could hardly keep the ghost of a surprised smile from his face. Though the remark was just a touch more scathing than the Gilan he remembered, it was still so familiar. He'd missed Gilan.

The captain snarled incoherently in range, albeit a little belatedly, as he finally understood the insult and directed his Wargals forward.

"I hope you have a plan a sharp as your tongue," Halt said mildly. "I don't recall deciding that it would be a good idea to antagonize this bunch."

Gilan merely shrugged. "We're outnumbered, surrounded, with nothing but a veritable cliff behind us. I have a sort of philosophy when it comes to situations like this."

"And what's that?" Halt asked suspiciously.

Gilan grinned. "To jump off the cliff. It'll be less messy that way."

The second eyebrow rose to join the first as he saw Gilan stoop to gather a large oval-shaped shield that had belonged to one of the Wargals in the first raid. And Halt realized what he was up too. He just had time to mutter darkly about totally mad former apprentices as Gilan ran for the ledge. Jump off the cliff indeed.

"You coming?" he called over his shoulder.

Halt glanced from his impulsive first apprentice to the hoard of murdering Wargals almost upon them and then shrugged philosophically.

"Why not?" he said then, racing after Gilan who threw the shield down and leaped upon it, Halt not moments behind him.

The momentum sent them towards the edge and then over it. The polished metal of the shield front skimmed over the surface of the snow and they were soon careering down the almost cliff-like incline at a speed rivaling that of any horse at a gallop. That crazy heart gripping pace eased some when the slopes leveled a little. But still they found themselves careering down the bald face of the snowy mountain. And the speed was breathtaking. Halt gripped the back of Gilan's leather shoulder armor, and Gilan griped the shield just as fiercely.

Halt chanced a quick glance behind them to see that the mass of Wargals was in pursuit, already jogging, sliding, and tumbling down the incline after them. He quickly turned his eyes back to the front, only to have them widen slightly as his heartbeat increased. The angle they were currently headed down was going to lead them off an actual cliff.

"Lean left!" he yelled over the crunching sound of snow as the metal of their sled cut over and through it.

Gilan obliged without hesitation and their movement made it so that their shield curved in a slow ungainly 'u' shape away from the edge as they continued their rapid descent down the mountain. The Wargals were now hopelessly far behind them. The two of them flew over a two-meter rise. Halt was gripped by a sensation of weightlessness before they crashed back to earth again, the impact nearly jarring them both off the shield. Little pieces of ice and snow flew into Halt's face, making it so that he could hardly see. He knew that it was probably even worse for Gilan as he was sitting in the front. Registering this, Halt shouted steering directions to him.

Somehow the two men on their ungainly and wayward craft managed to make the breathtaking descent down the lower parts of the mountain face and towards then into the ravine-like path of Three Step Pass whilst avoiding most the more dangerous obstacles. Soon they were off the mountains and racing across the flat bottom of Three Step Pass—the speed of their decent combined with the slight angle of the ground kept them going forwards at a pace now equal to a galloping horse. But it wasn't over yet.

Ahead of them, Halt could see the fairly low, yet formidable, wall that blocked the entrance to the pass: the very one he and Crowley had seen when they'd first arrived. Wargal sentries patrolled atop it.

It was the only way out and the gate was open. Halt directed Gilan to lean slightly left so that they were heading straight for it. Even at that distance, Halt could see the Wargal sentries startle as they noticed the two speeding men on the sled. They moved immediately to close the gate.

Gilan, blinking back tears brought on by the stinging flying snow, saw it too. He swore softly. He then pitched his voice over the crunch of snow and hiss of wind.

"They'll close it before we make it through!"

Halt saw that he was right. Even if they stayed at this breakneck speed they still wouldn't make it in time.

"Now what?" Halt asked his one-time apprentice.

"I don't know," Gilan shouted back, "I didn't actually plan this far ahead."

"You don't know?" the scathing incredulous tone in his voice was unmistakable.

"I'm open to suggestions."

Halt stared blankly ahead at the wooden palisade that blocked the way to their only exit from these mountains. He watched the Wargals scrambling to close the gate and then his gaze settled on something else. There was a vat of oil perched on a tripod of rather flimsy pine. The lip of this vat stood just a little higher than the palisade wall. Its purpose was to dump hot oil on the heads of any invaders trying to enter the pass, Halt knew.

But inspiration truly struck when he saw the rope tied to a frame above it that was used to hold the vat upright and to aid in the tipping process. He had a desperate idea, possibly their only way out of this. But he would need a fire arrow to pull it off.

He had flint, but he didn't have any tinder to catch the sparks. And, at the speed they were going, they would need something highly flammable. They didn't have that either. He felt his heartbeat go slightly faster as he floundered momentarily. What could he do? Then another question popped into his head. What was it that Gilan had said about Wargal fur—that the beasts had to shed it because it was so greasy? He looked down. There was a large clump of the stuff stuck in the shield's retaining arm strap. He grabbed it.

Gilan who had turned around to face him—as they had no need to steer on this flat stretch—saw what Halt had and his eyes widened as he caught on to Halt's plan.

"Do you think you can make a shot like that?" Halt asked.

He knew that the Gilan of the other time could do it without effort, but he didn't know about him in this time.

Gilan nodded instantly.

"I can. And, if you're doing what I think you are, you're shot would be much more difficult than mine."

Gilan took the large clump of greasy fur from Halt, tore a piece off the light shirt he wore underneath the leather armor and surcoat. He wrapped the cloth shred and the fur around the head of one of his arrows. Halt handed him the flint and he took it, already moving to strike some sparks and ground them in the Wargal tinder on the arrow. He used his body to shelter it from the wind of their forward motion. When he got it lit, he unslung his bow. Still sitting with his back to their forward motion, he waited. Halt meanwhile had un-slung his own bow and selected and arrow.

"Wait until I give the word," he said and Gilan nodded. Halt placed his arrow on the string and drew back; tilting his bow slightly as he would have done if he were one a horse, in order to compensate for his kneeling position. They were hardly more than fifty meters from the palisade now and the Wargals had already reached the gate to close it.

Halt took in the motion of their makeshift sled, the speed and direction of the wind, and then sighted and shot. His arrow slammed into the back leg of the tripod, followed in quick succession by another three. It caused the rather flimsy pine wood to buckle slightly, ensuring that, once the tipping rope was severed, the oil would spill backward onto the walkway and the Wargals. He set his sight on the rope then: a much harder shot. He mentally viewed it while he breathed to steady himself. He adjusted his aim slightly and then shot again, knowing instinctively that the shot was good. He loosed another two arrows and the rope severed completely.

"Now!" he shouted to Gilan who turned, drew back, sighted, and shot in the same fluid motion. His fire arrow hit the vat of oil just as it tipped backward and set it alight. A waterfall of fire cascaded into the ranks of the Wargal patrols.

Their highly greasy fur caught alight as did the wood of the palisade itself. Halt could hear several of the creatures scream in pain and fear as they ran blindly to put out the flames and, in many incidences, bumped into their companions and set them alight too.

The result was instantaneous. The Wargals' sense of cohesion was shattered and they scattered, leaving too few of their number to continue shutting the heavy gates which were left aflame and half closed. They hung open just enough as Halt and Gilan steered their sled towards and then through it at a speed far too fast to be stopped. They burst out into the open planes before them, leaving the palisade ablaze and smoking behind them.

They continued forwards, gradually slowing until they hit a rock and were flung forward off the sled. Both of them rolled to lessen the impact. Halt landed a little ways behind Gilan and he quickly rose to his feet. He hurried the few paces towards his former apprentice and bent to help him to his feet. As he did so, his eye caught on a small splotch of red staining the snow in the indentation that Gilan's body had made.

He ignored it for the time being as he and Gilan raced toward the cover of the trees at the edge of the plains and then into them. They did not stop running until they were sure that they were out of the Wargal's and Morgarath's men's reach. All the while they did their best to hide and cover their tracks, even going so far as to lay a few false trails. By then, the sun had set entirely. The two of them stopped in the shadow of a thick-trunked tree, nearly collapsing with exhaustion and panting to regain their breath. Halt's ankle was throbbing dully again.

Gilan cast a sideways glance at Halt once their breath was mostly back. His hood had fallen back from his face during their crazy escape and Halt could see a bright flash in his eyes that matched his grin. It made that ache in Halt's chest reappear.

"That was excellent shooting," Gilan said, his words wholly genuine. "I've never seen anything like it."

For a moment, Halt couldn't speak as he stared at the young man in front of him, still reeling over the fact he was alive, alive and standing there in front of him after all this time, after all, he'd heard.

In so many ways he was exactly the Gilan he remembered. Yet, in other ways, he wasn't quite exactly. There was something… harder about him. And there was something else that Halt couldn't quite put a name to: colder maybe? Guarded? Shadowed? It was almost as if he were looking at a slightly rougher version of him. If the Gilan he had known once was like the edge of a finely honed saxe knife then this one had edges that were more jagged and less polished.

At the same time, he was still that person that Halt had always known, that person that Halt had spent the better part of five years training and caring for, the person that he had once considered both friend and family—a person who would always have an extremely close place in his affections. It was all overwhelming and confusing.

But what was by far the worst, was the blank look in Gilan's eyes when they turned towards him. There was no true recognition there. There was respect, recognition of skill, and that odd familiarity that they had felt when they had fought so fluidly together; Gilan obviously had felt that strange sense of connection. And Halt could tell that it both intrigued and puzzled him. But there was no real depth to it, no remembrance, no true connection or friendship.

The respect and care in his eyes was little more than the passing affirmation and admiration of one with marked skills. It extended no further than the recognition of a kindred spirit, a possible ally. And that hurt. It hurt more deeply than Halt would ever have cared to admit. He'd already gone through this with Crowley and, in that moment, he didn't think he could go through that pain again. He couldn't do it again.

Ever since finding Crowley, he had known that this was the way it was going to this way whenever, or if, he ran into his old friends—the people he had cared so much about in that other time. He had thought he had prepared himself for it. But he realized now that there was really no way to actually prepare for it: to prepare for the pain of knowing and caring about someone, but knowing also that they could never quite return it. It was the pain of remembering a friendship and another life that no one else could.

The pleasure at seeing Gilan again, at knowing he was alive and well, was heavily shadowed by this pain. Gilan had been the nearest person to him when Morgarath's stone had gone off—if Gilan did not remember, then it was unlikely that anyone else would.

All these thoughts and feelings flooded through him in the few seconds it took for him to finally open his mouth to reply, not knowing exactly what he would say. Gilan solved the problem by beating him to it.

"You're a King's Ranger, aren't you?" he asked, nodding. "They don't often send you into Morgarath's lands." He grinned and held out his hand. "My name's Gilan."

Sorrow settled over Halt as he reached out in turn to clasp arms. Resigning himself to the disappointment, he made his expression a blank mask. "My name is Ha—" he started to say but never got the chance to finish.

* * *

 **A/N** : Bit of a cliff hanger, sorry about that. But it will be resolved, mostly, next chapter. Also, next chapter will most likely bring more of the focus to Horace, Will, Evanlyn, and Crowley (perhaps Lady Pauline and Alyss too if I get ambitious). Anyhow thanks so very much for reading! Reviews are very appreciated, if you've a mind to leave one, I'd be most grateful. Constructive criticism or suggestions are welcomed as well. I'm always eager to learn how to improve my writing. Thanks again to all my readers!

I hope you all have an amazing day and I wish you the very best! Until next time!


	19. Chapter 18

**A/N:** Hi Everyone! Next chapter is out! And with it the resolution of last time's cliffhanger. This chapter's flashback focuses on Pauline, Gilan, Sir Rodney, and Baron Arald _—_ which was pretty fun to explore. I had a little bit more difficulty than usual getting things to flow right in a couple of areas, but I have places this needs to go and so certain things that needed to be mentioned... oh well... Anyhow, I hope that this chapter proves to be an enjoyable read, and not too slow. Thanks so much for your support! I appreciate it!

 **Guest** : I hope this is soon enough for your liking! I really appreciate the review and support; thank you! XD

 **Random Flyer** : I like that saying! And it totally fits the Ranger Corps. It definitely won't be an easy time for Halt: but there is some hope for him yet. All I can say is that maybe it is reversible… and maybe it isn't… :D Don't worry, there will definitely be some comeuppance getting for Morgarath. And there may indeed be a few cans of worms in the offing XD Thanks so much for the review!

 **jaymzNshed** : Apologies for the cliffhanger X) It was one of my favorites to write, so I'm glad it proved to be an enjoyable read XD I really appreciate the review and compliment! Thanks!

 **Gerbilfriend:** Sometimes even useless information can be interesting XD. Thanks for the review!

 **Ranger-of-the-shadows** : I apologize for the rude cliffhanger, I just couldn't think how else to split the chapter up. Thanks so much for the review!

 **TrustTheCloak** : Sorry about the cliffhanger. Glad it didn't disappoint and that the characters seem natural. You will definitely see some of that in this chapter. I didn't think you were XD besides these guys do need some closure. Thanks so much for the encouragement and review!

 **Jammeke:** I'm very glad it proved to be worth looking forward to. Don't give up hope for Halt just yet XD Thanks so much for the review!

 **Oceanera12** : Halt definitely shouldn't lose hope just yet. I hope this was quick enough to be acceptable: I had some trouble getting certain parts to flow right and didn't want to give anyone only half-brewed coffee XD. It's going to be pretty fun to write that reunion too. Thanks so much for the review!

Previously _: The pleasure at seeing Gilan again, at knowing he was alive and well, was heavily shadowed by this pain. Gilan had been the nearest person to him when Morgarath's stone had gone off—if Gilan did not remember, then it was unlikely that anyone else would._

 _All these thoughts and feelings flooded through him in the few seconds it took for him to finally open his mouth to reply, not knowing exactly what he would say. Gilan solved the problem by beating him to it._

 _"You're a King's Ranger, aren't you?" he asked, nodding. "They don't often send you into Morgarath's lands." He grinned and held out his hand. "My name's Gilan."_

 _Sorrow settled over Halt as he reached out in turn to clasp arms. Resigning himself to the disappointment, he made his expression a blank mask. "My name is Ha—" he started to say but never got the chance to finish._

* * *

 **Chapter 18: The Mountains of Rain and Night Part III**

 **~x~X~x~**

 _A Few Years Previous_

 **~x~X~x~**

 _Lady Pauline raised her dagger and plunged it viciously into the back of a Wargal that had been trying to sneak up on, and attack, Sir Rodney from the side. The creature let out an unearthly sounding shriek before it collapsed. Pauline quickly made her way back behind the defensive line that Sir Rodney, Baron Arald, and the rest of the men at arms and in their party had made. Without armor and armed with only her knife, she knew she had little to no chance of surviving on the front lines for longer than a few moments. But quick, darting, attacks to help save a friend was something she was willing to risk. She saw Rodney nod once at her in thanks before his attention went back in full to the Wargals._

 _The situation was a grim one, beset as they were by more than a score of the beasts. But, as bad as it was, she knew it could have been infinitely worse had not the strange cowled man provided them with advanced warning._ _As she understood it, a group of Wargals had managed to make it past the border. It was a raiding party—a tactic Morgarath favored and used whenever he had the chance: and usually to devastating effect. There was no true border between the King's and Morgarath's lands and occasionally small raiding bands managed to slip through: their only mission to kill and raze farms and villages in order to inflict as much damage as possible._

 _It was just another of the trials they'd been forced to live with since the start of the war. Arald and his retinue, including Pauline, had been sent by the King to provide counsel and support to one of the border fiefs. And, though they'd not known it, the path they'd taken whilst heading south, had been the very same one on which this Wargal raiding party had been taking north. They would have run straight into each other had not the cowled man on the shaggy horse warned them in time enough for them to find a relatively definable area. He only barely had the time to introduce himself before the fighting started. He claimed to be a sellsword trying to fulfill a contract of employment with one of the small nearby villages. Apparently, he'd been on the road just ahead of their party when he'd spotted the raiding Wargals. He'd been meaning to warn the nearby villagers—and most likely offer his sword in their aid for a price, she thought ruefully—when he'd run into Arald's party instead. As things had turned out, however, she could honestly say she was glad that he had run into them._

 _She moved back towards the safety of the middle of the group, closer to the rear, and spared a moment for a curious glance at the mercenary in question. He stood near the front, helping to hold their line, fighting expertly. She didn't have time to truly ponder him long, however, for a soldier nearby let out a warning cry. Pauline's sharp eyes took in the forms of several Wargals that had somehow managed to flank them. Several soldiers let out cries of alarm and warning as they hastily scrambled to cover the rear from this new attack._

 _She knew immediately that she was at a serious disadvantage, and in serious trouble, in a frontal assault like this. Many of the Wargals were armed with heavy cudgels, crude axes, and swords. Armed only with her dagger, the beasts had the advantage of a longer reach along with their sheer size and brutality. She found herself giving ground, desperately trying to retreat to avoid engaging them head-on. Unfortunately, she wasn't the only one who was doing so. The soldiers in the rear had been taken off guard by the vicious and sudden nature of the attack. Their hasty defensive line broke._ _She was knocked back and off her feet by the combined impetus of the retreating soldiers and advancing Wargals. Winded by the fall, she found herself suddenly at the mercy of one of the first beasts to break through. The creature had stopped his forward rush only to stand over her prone form, weapon upraised for a killing blow._

 _She stared up in horror, gathering herself to try and roll clear of the attack, flipping the hold on her knife from the hilt to the blade's tip for a desperate throw. Heart racing, she drew her arm back, hoping that, if she hit the beast in his eye or throat, it would give her time to get clear of him and save herself before the other Wargals would be upon her. The Wargal's club was already on the way down as the knife left her hand and she rolled. Suddenly, the beast stopped in its tracks and yowled in agony as a sword appeared in the middle of its chest, seconds before her knife struck its bestial face. The creature tumbled to the ground, revealing the hooded mercenary who had already withdrawn his sword and was turning to face his next foes—the three others near her. And he wasn't alone, several knights had been sent from the front to help defend the demoralized rear. Only moments after, the Baron and his retinue, who had taken care of the remaining Wargals in the front, had also moved to help support the retreating line of soldiers. Under their combined effort, they were able to stop and then turn aside the flaking party._

 _The hooded warrior turned from the last Wargal that he had just felled and offered her a hand up._

 _"Are you alright, my lady?" he asked. She took his hand and he gently pulled her to her feet._

 _But before she could reply, Arald and Rodney made their way over to her side, asking the same question—both of their faces still showing concern as they looked her over carefully._

 _When she answered in the affirmative, and when they were satisfied that it was true, they both went to ensure that the immediate area was clear and to take stock of the situation. Though they did spare the time to offer thanks towards the mercenary who had very likely saved their entire party and had definitely helped to save her. Pauline turned back towards the mercenary then._

 _"Thank you for lending a hand with that fight, and for saving my life."_

 _He shrugged, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "Not certain it was really necessary, you seemed just about to save yourself."_

 _"Still," She smiled at him and was about to say more when she took in the full state of the battlefield and the damage that had been done. She could see clearly that the healers would need help in taking care of the men who had been wounded in the fight. They had their hands full with the two men who had been seriously injured and there were many more who needed help for less grievous wounds. Pauline, however, was not one of Araluen's foremost diplomats for nothing. In a relatively short period of time, she had a group of able-bodied, and currently unoccupied, people, including the mercenary, organized to help the wounded._

 _She ended up with the mercenary beside her, holding a bowl of clean water and bandages for her as she moved through the ranks of men to stop near one who had suffered a nasty gash across his face._

 _"As I said, I'm not a healer by trade," she told the mercenary and the soldier conversationally as she gently set to work cleaning the soldier's injury, "But as the camp healers are busy with the other men, I do believe it will be better for me to attend to it, rather than just leave it at that."_

 _The soldier was too dazed to offer her a reply, but she_ _saw the mercenary's mouth tilt upwards in that same smile as he shrugged slightly. "I'm sure anyone who chooses to travel at times like these probably knows enough to get by."_

 _"That's certainly true," she agreed, glancing ruefully around her, before moving to apply a healing salve to the wound. She then accepted the bandages the mercenary offered. Once she was finished wrapping the injury, she stepped back so the mercenary could move the injured soldier to a more comfortable position._

 _His hood fell back from his face as he set the soldier down, taking his face out from under partial shadow so she could clearly see it. He quickly moved to replace his cowl but wasn't quite fast enough. Pauline had spent years training herself not to reveal her emotions, but she could not quite keep the surprise she felt from showing momentarily before she quickly masked it. It wasn't the features of his face that had so startled her, rather it was the youth of them. His bearing and skill had made her think him to be an adult, but that was obviously not so. He was perhaps only seventeen to nineteen winters old if she had to guess._

 _Despite the speed with which she had masked her initial response, he seemed to guess at her thoughts because he grinned at her. It was a wide bright smile that was cheerful, knowing, and mischievous all at once. And, to her, it seemed familiar somehow, like she had known it before._

 _"People don't usually hire sellswords when they appear to be hardly any older than a boy," he said, amused._

 _"I take it that is why you wear the hood?"_

 _"Mostly," he said but didn't elaborate further._

 _She didn't press._ _Together they went about tending other men in need of assistance. They conversed while she worked. He was an easy person to talk to, intelligent but not arrogant or stuffy, rather he seemed to be one who was readily amused. He was also willing to help and had a friendly manner with the soldiers. All in all, he wasn't exactly what she had assumed him to be from the start, and she found herself regarding him more than once with a curious and calculating glance. As she did so, she felt an odd sensation that she had never really felt before—a sort of motherly sense… But why should that be so odd, she thought idly, after all, she had two sons and… she shook her head at the utterly ridiculous thought, breaking the odd revelry. No, she didn't. She didn't even have an apprentice, though she was thinking of taking one soon. She shook herself slightly from her thoughts to notice that he was smiling questioningly at her._

 _"You remind me of someone I know," she said, knowing it was truthful, just completely unable to place the feeling._

 _He nodded acceptance of that._

 _"You never did tell me what your name was," she said._

 _"Apologies, my lady, my name's Gilan," he said_

 _"No need to 'my lady' me," she said. "Call me Pauline; all my friends do."_

 _Somehow, it felt right to tell him that._

 _"Well then, thank you, Pauline," he tried it out._

 ** _~x~X~x~_**

 _"All the Wargals in the immediate area have been taken care of, my lord," Rodney reported a few hours later._

 _"So there's nothing keeping us from continuing on our way tomorrow," Arald said, digesting the information. He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "We are not too far from Culway Castle. If we make litters, we should be able to bring the wounded that far without too much trouble."_

 _Rodney nodded. "As you say, my lord. But, trouble is, I don't know if the way ahead is actually completely clear."_

 _Arald frowned and motioned for his Battlemaster to explain._

 _"I've just received troubling reports from our scouts. They believe that there is possibly another party that has broken through, or that perhaps we did not engage the full party. They've seen signs of more Wargals ahead but weren't able to get close enough to know for certain. If those reports are accurate, then we have no idea how many more Wargals could be blocking the road ahead or waiting in ambush" Rodney said dully._

 _"I see," Arald's frown deepened then. It was a bit of a quandary that they were in, and discovering exactly the nature of the potential danger they faced was a priority. He knew that he would probably have to appoint one of his scouts, or perhaps Rodney himself, to risk getting too close to find out._

 _"I'll get the numbers for you, my lord," a voice said quietly from behind him, causing him to jump slightly._

 _He hadn't realized that there had been somebody there. He whirled around to see the strange hooded mercenary who'd helped rescue their party earlier. He found himself glancing back towards the fire where he'd last seen the warrior sitting with Lady Pauline just moments before. It was unsettling how he moved like that… unsettling, yet almost familiar. In fact, one of his greatest friends used to… He lost his train of thought and then shook his head to clear it. It reminded him of how Fergus moved, the former Ranger of Redmont Fief._

 _However, now that the suggestion was out in the open, Baron Arald considered the idea seriously. He'd seen the way the man moved and fought and thought he might just be capable of the job. Rodney, however, was much more warry and spoke up when he saw Arald turning the idea over in his mind._

 _"With respect, my lord, how do we know that we can trust him to get the numbers right? There's too much at stake here."_

 _Surprisingly it was the cowled warrior who answered, his tone sounding genuinely amused. "I'm a mercenary," he said simply, "I don't get paid if I get it wrong."_

 _Arald found himself smiling at the simple statement and the devastating logic behind it._

 _"Very well," he said, inclining his head to the mercenary, "I accept your offer."_

 _"Then I will accompany him," Rodney spoke up._

 ** _~x~X~x~_**

 _The next morning found the party ready to move again, certain that there would be no more Wargal raiding parties on the road ahead. Rodney and Gilan had scoured the area and found nothing but a few stragglers that they had easily taken care of. Lady Pauline studied Gilan now as he tightened the girth strap of his saddle, already making ready to leave now that Arald had paid him for his services._

 _He turned when he sensed her eyes on him and offered a small questioning smile._

 _"Have you ever taken a job for Morgarath?" She asked bluntly. She'd been turning an idea over in her mind ever since they'd talked the day before and had elected to act on it._

 _The smile died immediately as he let out a snort of utter disgust. "I'd sooner put an arrow through him than take any job of his." But he seemed to sense the reason behind the question nonetheless for he added, "I don't have any intelligence on the man or his operations that you could use, if that's what you're after." A slow smile began to spread across his face. "But I could get it."_

 _"For a price, I suppose?" she asked smiling shrewdly at him._

 _"Is that an offer?" he countered, grinning at her._

 _Pauline thought for a moment before deciding to fully commit. It was true that this mercenary could very well be a spy or a plant for Morgarath—although her instincts told her not. Nevertheless, the Couriers, and consequently the King, could use a man with skills like his. And oftentimes taking chances like this was well worth the risk. She was no stranger to recruiting informants and agents for her cause and knew how to minimize risks and suss out true allegiances and intentions. She knew how to take things incrementally before actually setting someone to serious or vital jobs—if things worked out. But she had a good feeling about this mercenary._

 _"I suppose it is," she said then_ _—_ _and meant it._

 **~x~X~x~**

 _Present Day_

 **~x~X~x~**

Crowley stood straighter from his slumped position as Pauline exited the room, every muscle and bone in his body protested as he did so. Crowley was exhausted. He'd pushed Cropper's, the princess's, and his own limits trying to get Highcliff Fief in record time.

"How is she?" he asked quietly.

"Tired, but I set her up in Alyss's room so she can rest. Alyss will look after her, and I figured she'd be more comfortable staying with someone her own age. I already sent a message to the King. By pigeon, it shouldn't take long to reach him. Arald, his retinue, and myself were going to leave in a few days, but I doubt the King would want that considering recent developments. We decided to stay until we get orders from his majesty on how he'd like to proceed.

Crowley inclined his head, seeing the sense in the plan. The princess was safe for the moment and in capable hands. King Duncan would want to see her safe home, of course. But, since there was no emergency in the situation anymore, he wouldn't need to overextend his resources to do so.

Pauline frowned suddenly. "You said she'd been going incognito under the name Evanlyn, correct?"

Crowley nodded once, regretting the motion when it set his head to spinning slightly with fatigue.

"Well, I was thinking that it might be best for her to keep that up—at least until she gets back to the capital. I already informed Alyss."

"You'll tell Baron Arald, Douglass, and their senior staffs as well though?"

She nodded. "I was planning to. They can protect her better if they know. But, at the same time, the fewer people that know, the better."

Crowley inclined his head this time, so as not to repeat his previous mistake; trying all the while not to let the exhaustion he felt show on his face. It was a wan attempt and Pauline obviously saw straight through it.

"You should probably find a place to rest too, you look done in," she took him by the arm. "I'll walk you to your rooms; can't have you passing out from exhaustion before you even get there," she teased lightly.

"That's probably a good idea," he agreed, falling in step beside her, unable to stop his eyelids from drooping, nor quell the stinging of his eyes brought on by the exhaustion. The last thing he wanted was to waste valuable time sleeping, but he would be of no use to the King or to Halt like this.

"What will you do now?" Pauline asked as they walked, possibly in an attempt to keep him from keeling over right there. Though he was certain the question came from genuine curiosity too.

"I have to go back. Not only did I leave a Ranger behind, but I also didn't get the information we needed. I plan to leave tomorrow morning after I've rested a bit."

"But now they'll be on high alert for Rangers—high alert for you."

"Maybe, but it's a risk I'm going to have to take."

She didn't argue the point. She knew he was right. "Then I suppose there's nothing left to do but wish you a safe trip... once again."

He chuckled. "You and I have to stop parting this way."

"Indeed," she smiled back.

 **~x~X~x~**

As soon as Halt and Gilan touched to clasp hands, his former apprentice reacted as if he had been stung. He jerked away from Halt as if the bearded Ranger were made of hot irons. Gilan's eyes were wide and fixed on him. His mouth dropped open for a moment before he snapped it shut. He shook his head as he stepped back suddenly.

"H… H-Halt?" He breathed, his voice breaking with confusion before it rose a little in pitch. "How can—I... I-I don't—"

Whatever he was about to say was cut off by a soft grunt of pain and he lifted both hands to his head. He shook his head again as if to clear it, his breathing suddenly ragged. He gritted his teeth as he took another backward step and stumbled slightly, looking faint. Halt reached out but was too far away to try and catch him as he sunk to his knees, and then slumped to the ground unconscious.

All the hope that Halt had previously lost came flooding back in a rush. Even still, he could not help but wince slightly. He knew that Gilan's mind was currently being swamped by too many memories all at once: it had been the same way it had happened to him. He knew the weird hurt of it all.

He wouldn't leave his former apprentice lying slumped in the shadow of the tree, so he took him carefully into a place where the trees grew thickly around a little hollow to make a camp for them both. There wasn't much snow there; the forest canopy was too thick. He lay Gilan carefully down and debated whether or not to try to build a small fire.

The coming of night in this early winter-like weather made having a source of warmth a near priority. It was risky, he knew—especially if men or Wargals had been sent in pursuit of them. But, at the same time, they couldn't risk potentially freezing to death if the night continued to grow colder. Also, he might well need the light if he were to help Gilan effectively. Besides, so far as Halt knew, none of Morgarath's men knew the way through this forest as well as the Rangers did—as Gilan did in that other time. Also, Halt had his doubts that anyone pursuing them had the skills enough to track them, especially considering the precautions they had taken. The woods grew very thickly around this hollow which would help to hide the light and the thick canopy of the evergreens overhead would help hide the smoke from being seen. The still air would keep the scent of the fire away from enemy noses as well. He decided eventually that the risk was worth it.

Fire done, he moved quickly back to Gilan, his mind intent on something he'd noticed earlier from their escape: the red splotch that Gilan had left in the snow. His apprentice had gotten hurt sometime during that fight, he knew. He bent, carefully feeling along Gilan's upper body and then stopping when he encountered something hot and sticky. Blood was oozing slowly, but steadily out through a rend in his leather armor, just below his left shoulder blade. Though logic told him that it wasn't a serious injury—Gilan wouldn't have been able to run with him so far into the woods if it had been—he could not help but feel a cold stone settling in his stomach. He couldn't have found Gilan again only to lose him.

Halt cleared a patch of ground near the light of the fire and set Gilan on it, knowing that he needed to assess the damage as quickly as possible. Carefully, he began undoing the ties and straps of the simple leather armor he wore and then removed his surcoat, gambeson shirt, and finally his undershirt.

In the light of the fire, he could see the yellowed marks of almost faded bruises on his face, chest, and arms, as if he'd been in a nasty fight recently. He could also see that Gilan was a little on the thin side—despite being well-muscled and fit. It was just on the outside edge of being too thin for Halt to consider fully healthy. None of it boded well as far as Halt was concerned.

"You've definitely not been putting any meat on those bones of yours," he said dryly as he rolled Gilan carefully from his side to his stomach so he could get a look at the wound.

He caught his breath at the sight that greeted his eyes. He sat back on his heels, staring, feeling suddenly sick.

" _Gil_ ," he whispered.

There was an absolute myriad of long ugly scars crisscrossing Gilan's back in a haphazard pattern. Halt passed a gentle hand over the old wounds, a reflexive habit from having had two apprentices under his care awakening as he checked them over carefully. He felt a slow burning anger well up in his chest. He had a guess as to what those scars were from. They looked far too deliberate to have been caused in battle, by an animal, or in some accident. No, someone had beaten his apprentice, beaten him ruthlessly—torn the skin from his back. And he could tell by the coloration of the scars that it had probably happened when he had been hardly more than a boy.

Gilan shuddered slightly. Halt removed his hand then, realizing that the touch might be distressing or hurting him. And that was something that Halt, even grim and bad-tempered as he was, could never willingly bring himself to do. Though it was obvious that someone else had lacked that sentiment. Halt wondered briefly who had done it and if they were anywhere in easy bow range as he finally switched his focus to assess the open wound under Gilan's shoulder. He wiped away the blood to reveal a long and wide, but fairly shallow gash that was bleeding sluggishly, but not enough to be dangerous or alarming. His former apprentice's armor had served its purpose well—protecting him from any serious damage.

The wound was fairly easy to clean and patch. He stitched the lips of it closed with the needle and thread in his medical kit, knowing it should heal cleanly and fairly quickly. He bandaged it carefully and then returned Gilan's shirt and over-tunic to help protect him from the cold of the night. He then covered him with his cloak so he could sleep off the effects of the wound and of his mind being swamped by the memories of the other time. The latter was exhausting, overwhelming, and confusing, he knew.

After rewrapping his own ankle, he set himself to the task of making some coffee, knowing that Gilan would probably want some when he woke. The aroma of coffee was only just beginning to scent the air when Gilan woke. He sat up slowly, Halt's cloak draped about his shoulders. There was an odd vacant look about him that faded as he took in the campsite.

"Halt," he whispered, his voice catching slightly, as soon as his gaze landed on his former mentor. He rose instantly to his feet and crossed the distance between them in a few purposeful strides.

Halt rose to meet him. All of his previous joy and relief turned suddenly into apprehension as he was hit with the uncertainty of how Gilan was going to take all this now that he remembered. Gilan's condition and his scars told quite plainly that he hadn't had an easy or pleasant go of it this time around. Halt could clearly see that he'd been badly hurt, had suffered, in this timeline—and probably more than once. What if Gilan blamed him for everything that happened? Suppose Gilan hated him? After all, Halt knew that he was partially to blame for all this—even if only by dint of not being there.

He let none of these thoughts or apprehensions show through his blank mask as Gilan stopped mere paces from him. The younger Ranger stared at him for a short moment that seemed to take hours in Halt's estimation as he waited in that painful uncertainty.

"Halt, it's really you," Gilan said finally, his voice breaking with emotion. "You don't know how good it is to see you again." And, so saying, he embraced his onetime mentor warmly, his eyes slightly moist with tears. Truthfully, it felt like years since they had last seen each other—it had been years since they'd last seen each other. Halt embraced him back, finally relaxing.

"It's good to see you too, Gilan," Halt said, his own voice breaking also. And it was good to see him—and made better by the fact that Gilan _knew_ him, and didn't seem to hate him for it.

They broke apart then, holding each other at arm's length. Gilan flashed him that all too familiar grin of his.

"It's been so long," he said quietly before a confused expression settled upon his features. "You were my mentor, one of the most important people in my life, one of my greatest friends, and yet, we've never met before today. How can that be?" he took a breath, a puzzled note in his voice. "I remember parts of another lifetime that never even existed here."

"How much do you remember?"

"I remember anything and everything that had to do with you, training, being a Ranger," he frowned slightly as he thought, "but nothing at all before that..."

"What's the last thing you remember?"

Gilan slit his eyes in concentration, his brow furrowing as he tried to think back.

"I am about the same age now as I was then," he said wonderingly and then brightened. "Morgarath's stone! You went to stop him and I was touching you when it went off. Is that why I can remember, but only things that have to do with you?"

"That would be my guess," Halt said. "I was touching the stone when it went off and, though it took me quite a while, I remember everything."

"It feels like I've got two different lifetimes traveling side by side in my head," his former apprentice said then ruefully, rubbing his forehead.

"Tell me about it," Halt said grimly. "You'll soon get used to it though."

They both sat near the fire and Halt moved to pour the coffee. A moment of companionable silence passed between them.

Halt sat across from his former student, watching him out of the corner of his eye as he drank, several questions flitting through his mind. Gilan was obviously on his own. Something must have happened for him to be like this. Based on what he had seen of the Kingdom so far, that didn't really surprise him. And it occurred to him that he now had the opportunity to find out exactly how damaged the kingdom was, and exactly what was going on, without incurring any suspicions now.

"Gilan, what's going on here? I gathered that half the country is claimed by Morgarath, but what of the King? What of the Ranger Corps? Crowley? Baron Arald, Rodney and Pauline?" he asked finally. Again he refrained from asking about Will because he knew it was more than doubtful that Gilan knew anything about him.

Gilan nodded, swallowing a mouthful of coffee and then setting the cup aside. He began to explain then, succinctly and accurately as Rangers were trained to do.

"The King is bottled up in his half of the country, trying to rally support. Crowley is with him and about twenty other Rangers. There is no Ranger Crops as we know it. It was never properly reformed. I'm not sure if Crowley is the commandant this time around… I've only met him a few times and we weren't really in the position to talk politics then."

"I can answer that question," Halt said. "I met up briefly with him too and found out that he is the commandant."

Gilan nodded, filing that information away before continuing at Halt's gesture to do so. "King Duncan never got the support he needed when his father died. Many of the barons were supportive of Morgarath and the Kingdom split. The Battle of Hackham Heath was the last biggest engagement. We've been at a stalemate ever since. Morgarath hasn't been able to gain more than half the Kingdom but King Duncan can't either.

"Redmont Fief fell to Morgarath," Gilan continued. "Baron Arald is displaced, with no holdings or any actual power. But he often acts as an advisor to the King and travels between the fiefs to help hold everything together." Gilan's face took on a thoughtful expression then. "We need more men like him to be the ones who hold authority. Many of the Barons are weak and Morgarath knows it.

"As far as I know, Arald's senior staff stayed, and travel, with him—that often includes Lady Pauline," he added, smiling and looking annoying knowing for a moment, "and even Chubb. We think that Morgarath is planning a large scale invasion and that it will happen soon. He is amassing his army and there have been reports of hired Scandians. It's all a mess, Halt," he finished.

"Who is the supreme army commander?"

"Lord Northolt, he isn't dead in this time."

"What about your father, Sir David?" he asked curiously. Crowley had said that Sir David was alive and well, serving as the Battlemaster of Highcliff. But what didn't make sense was why both Crowley and Sir David thought Gilan was dead.

"He's alive, last I checked." Gilan shrugged. "He serves as Baron Douglass's Battlemaster and is sometimes called upon to advise the King, or act as the cavalry commander." The reply was forthcoming, but there was an odd note in his voice that Halt couldn't quite discern. He looked up sharply and saw a foreign hard look lurking just behind Gilan's eyes and in his manner.

"You're not a knight?" Halt asked.

Gilan shook his head, amused. "Can you see me as a knight?"

The ghost of a smile touched Halt's lips and he shook his head. "No, I can't. Knights are disciplined, respectful, folk."

Gilan laughed. "Good to know you think so little of me."

"It has nothing to do with me thinking it."

"Maybe not. And yet, it could be argued I learned by example." Gilan said, only just managing to keep a straight face.

Halt gave his former apprentice a withering glare in response to that, but he remained stolidly un-withered. "I think I might have liked it better when you didn't remember. You showed a lot more respect for me then."

Gilan grinned.

So his former apprentice was alone then, Halt thought, and not on some long-lasting incognito mission. He wasn't a knight, and he couldn't be a Ranger because they hardly existed in this time and Crowley thought he was dead.

"What of you, Gilan?" Halt asked then.

Gilan, who had been quick and prompt to answer earlier, hesitated and looked decidedly uncomfortable. He shifted slightly before answering.

"I travel around and people… well, they pay me to capture wanted criminals, stop brigands… and sometimes get information," he admitted tensely.

"You're a bounty hunter?" Halt asked, "And a sellsword?"

Gilan winced slightly, looking almost chastened. Having gotten his memories back, he likely remembered Halt's general opinion of mercenaries.

"I don't take just any job: only ones that are in Araluen's interest and the peoples'. And I try to stay on the right side of the law…" he seemed to think about what he'd said for a moment, a faint smile growing on his face as he added, "mostly, anyway."

"So you're basically a Ranger for hire? The key words being: _for hire_?" Halt asked, raising an eyebrow, though inwardly he was smiling. Of all the things.

Gilan seemed to relax a little then, reading Halt as well as he had in that other time.

"It's not as if I would be paid otherwise. The Corps is almost nonexistent and, as you pointed out earlier, I'm no knight. I would do it all for free if I could afford to, but I've got a family to support, you know."

"A family?" both eyebrows were up. "Just what exactly have you been doing in this time?"

"That's my business, I think," Gilan tilted his head slightly and shot him a decidedly devilish looking smile.

Halt stared at him incredulously.

Gilan chuckled, shaking his head slightly. "It's probably not what you're thinking. They're really actually more of apprentices. And one of them nearly eats me out of house and home—well, out of tent and campsite at any rate."

"Apprentices?" Halt asked feeling a pang in his heart that turned hopeful with Gilan's next words.

"You actually know both of them—and so did I apparently: Will and Horace. We sort of found each other and have been traveling together ever since. They were a bit… displaced, like me, and didn't have anywhere to go. I felt an odd connection to the two of them at the time… I guess I know why now."

"Will is alright?" Halt asked, feeling yet another great weight lifting from his heart, and feeling more relieved and happier than he had in what seemed ages now. "Young Horace too?" He felt a small but genuine smile spreading across his face. Here, in a world of wrongs, there were at least a few things that were right. He felt a surge of affection for his former student.

"You did well, Gilan," he said, laying a hand on the younger man's shoulder, "I'm proud of you."

Something lifted slightly in Gilan's own expression and he flushed again but with pleasure this time and not embarrassment.

"We can set this right, can't we, Halt?" he asked hopefully, expectantly.

"You mean: is there a way to set this all back to the way it should be—or, at least, as close to that as we can get it? Yes, I'm fairly certain that there is. But we are going to need more help than just the two of us to pull it off." Then he amended his words, "More than the four of us if we include Will and Horace."

"And they'll want to be included, knowing them."

Halt smiled inwardly. "I'll bet they would."

Will was alive and alright. For the first time since he'd remembered the other time, Halt felt like things might just start to be okay.

"Where is Will?" Halt asked then.

"I left them back at our camp. I didn't think it'd be a good idea to bring them along to the Mountains of Rain and Night with me."

Halt couldn't help but agree.

"If we set out early tomorrow and head due north we should reach our camp before noon," Gilan said then.

He'd be able to see Will again. Halt felt something warm flood his chest at the realization. But, at the same time, he could not help but feel another less pleasant emotion… unease or nervousness he finally decided as he thought on it. He hadn't seen Will in years and this was an entirely new lifetime. What was worse was that Will most likely didn't and wouldn't remember him—if what he surmised about the nature of the stone was true. What if Will… what if they couldn't rebuild what they'd had before?

Gilan must have seen the uncharacteristic uncertainty behind Halt's sudden silence because he spoke again, guessing at what he thought might be on his mentor's mind—and managing to guess at least partially correctly at that.

"Will's had a harder go of it this time around, it's true. But he's strong. Where it matters he's still the same old Will that he always was."

Halt could only hope that he was right. And hope too that he could somehow rebuild what he'd lost with Will, and with all the others he'd once cared about too.

 **~x~X~x~**

The next morning, Halt woke to find Gilan nowhere in sight. A short search later found Gilan standing in the trees just outside of their campsite. His shirt was off and he appeared to be trying to re-do the bandage that Halt had tied on him the night before. He was having a time of it because of its awkward position in a hard to reach area. As Halt watched, it slipped down just as Gilan got the ends around his chest. He swore softly in frustration. Halt watched the admittedly comical scene with no small amount of amusement for a few moments before stepping forwards.

"Why don't you let me get that?" he asked and inwardly smiled when Gilan startled in surprise. Rangers loved it when they could successfully catch each other unawares, after all.

Gilan faced Halt as he approached; his eyes seemed unreadable for a moment as Halt held out his hand. For a long while, Gilan did not move. He just stood there, stiffly. Halt frowned at the odd reaction and was about to pull his hand away when Gilan slowly moved to hand him the bandage and then carefully turned so his back was facing Halt.

Halt easily re-tied the bandage for him. As he did so, he realized what had been wrong with his former apprentice. The Gilan of this time didn't like to turn his back to anyone: his was a dangerous and unforgiving world. And the scars that Halt could clearly see there, bore silent testament to what had happened the last time that he had. Halt felt a recently all too familiar sense of failure growing in him, accompanied by a heavy feeling of guilt… or was it regret?

"Gilan," he began as soon as he finished tying the bandage.

His former apprentice straightened and faced him. There was again that trace of an out of place hard look in Gilan's eyes mixed with that familiar set to his jaw as he anticipated Halt's question. Halt, however, had no desire to potentially hurt the young man by poking at something in his past that obviously pained him, especially not when he wasn't ready to discuss it yet. And he had something more important that he needed to say.

"I'm… sorry that I wasn't there for you… in this time."

As soon as he said it, he looked up to see that that hard look had completely vanished. Gilan shook his head, his hands moving in a negative gesture.

"Don't be," he said softly, "none of this was ever your fault." He managed a smile then. "I should be the one who's sorry. Look what happened to that pot belly of yours without someone to keep your eating habits in check. You have more than enough for both of us."

The ghost of a smile spread across Halt's face at the old joke. "I wouldn't be too sure about that; you've grown up to be a little more than a skeleton. I don't think you have a speck of meat on you."

Gilan laughed, an easy, familiar, sound. Halt's trace of a smile faded further into an echo.

"I'm alright, Halt, really," Gilan said, again able to sense his old mentor's thoughts and mood almost as easily as he could in that other time. "And I'm better than alright now." He took a breath as he tried to gather his thoughts before continuing. "I don't really know how to explain it but, when I was alone out there, some of the only things I had were muscle memory and a slight memory of the things you taught me in that other time. It was almost like I could even hear your voice sometimes: your tips, lessons, and advice. Those saved my life more times than I can count. Thank you."

* * *

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading! Reviews are loved and constructive criticism/suggestions are always valued. Let me know your thoughts and/or ideas for improvement; I'd be entirely grateful, and so would the muse!

So, Gilan remembers! Just not fully. But at least it's enough to give Halt a bit of a break and some much-needed peace of mind! And I've left a few hints, in this chapter especially but also in a few previous ones, as to the extent to which the people who did not touch the stone (or Halt for that matter) will remember things. Next chapter Halt meets up with Will and Horace and the four of them embark on a bit of a scouting mission. Which should eventually lead everyone closer together as they start to converge in the same area. (Well, everyone but Crowley at the moment). XD

Also, minor side note (after thinking about it for a bit, I thought it might be best to put this note here to set the minds of anyone who might be worried/wary that I might grievously misrepresent/portray a certain character at ease): I promise I'm not intimating that Sir David is the one responsible for hurting/scaring Gilan. That'd be extraordinarily, and wildly, out of character for him, after all. Gilan and David do, as most can tell by the story thus far, have an issue/conflict between them; but rest assured that a physically violent/abusive relationship between them isn't the reason for it. Also, the full story on the entirety of the mess they both got themselves into in the past will be out in three chapters, as it will become, by then, vastly more relevant to the story, story progression, and situation at hand.

I wish you all the the very best! Until next time!


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